The Handy-Dandy Mage
by MinionRipley
Summary: Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and blah blah blah. Looking back, Alistair supposed it was really no wonder he'd never been able to sit still during the sermons. After meeting the newest Warden, though, he wonders if he should have stayed at the chantry anyway... (F!Amell/Alistair pairing.) (DISCONTINUED.)
1. A Smiling Start

Author's Notes: Hi there! This is the first multi-chapter story I've worked on in a long time, so please let me know how I'm doing. I always really appreciate feedback and suggestions on how I could improve.

Yes, there will be some romance between Alistair and Solona Amell in future chapters, but I'll do my best to focus on comedy and not get too stuck on the lovey-dovey stuff; there's already plenty of that with Alistair out there anyway.

Please note that I may go back and make revisions over the course of the story, but I hope to keep most of these edits fairly minor. I'll let you know in the Author's Notes section if I make significant past changes at any point.

I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: A Smiling Start

In the chantry as a boy, Alistair had always heard that magic was meant to serve.

Really, there was no way he could have _not_ heard that, as Sister Kara so fondly took to reciting sections of the Canticle of Transfigurations every other day in the afternoon when, of course, he had cleaning duty just down the hall (and he was still sure Omer and his friends had something to do with that). He didn't think he could forget it even if he really wanted to, as branded as the words were in his mind in all their shrill-toned glory.

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and_ blah blah blah.

Looking back, he supposed it was really no wonder he'd never been able to sit still during the sermons. The stuff was dull. _Duller_ than dull. He was pretty sure no birds roosted in the rafters because they'd all died from boredom a minute after flying in.

And then there were also the templars. Every so often, he caught their whispered conversations in the hallways as he scrubbed pots in the kitchen. As he discovered, sound carried well through those stone corridors, particularly so when he was also in them (searching for a brush, he'd always say when he got caught eavesdropping). Ser Felmon, Quentin, or somebody else would wander by and start muttering how much better everything would be if they only had full reign over their troublesome charges. If they could just cut out this "officious Circle nonsense," they'd say, they could make mages stick to lighting the eternal flame in the chantries as in the past or put them to use enchanting as Tranquils, and then there'd be no more fuss or foolishness about forbidden magic or abominations.

At the time, Alistair hadn't known much about the Circle Tower, demons, or blood magic. But, he _did_ know one thing – keeping up a single fire for the rest of one's life was dead boring, and he was sure enchanting things like swords and never actually getting to use them was only a smidgen better.

Now, if _he_ had magic at his fingertips, everything would be different. He could do whatever he wanted!

One idea – a frequent daydream of his, actually – had been to fly over treetops and houses like a bird, the wind on his face and through his hair. _Freedom_, he'd thought then. Pure and perfect freedom from everyone and everything, _especially_ pot-scrubbing.

The Revered Mother shot that one down when she told him such magic didn't exist, and thankfully so or else keeping mages in the Circles would have been nigh impossible.

And so came his second idea, a plan to put a secret curse on the boys who sneered at him in the dormitory, calling him a bastard and asking him why his father never came for him. Just a small curse, mind; something that tied the laces of their shoes together when they weren't looking, or a hex that would always make them say the wrong answers when one of the Mothers tested them.

Though Sister Alisha said such a thing would be amusing, she unraveled it by adding that it technically wasn't serving anyone but himself.

Then he thought of a spell to make the rain go away. The stormy days full of freezing, miserable rain that turned the streets to filthy mud and brought up a horrid stench from the sewers – gone in an instant. Instead, there'd only be sun, sun, sun, and he could go out and play rather than sit cooped up inside all day.

And that, too, dissipated into the stuff of dreams when the cook pointed out that people actually needed the rain for their crops and wells.

Many such designs came and went over time, until he finally remembered he did in fact _not_ have magic and so thinking about any of this was useless to begin with. Then, when he was put into the Order of Templars, he heard about nothing but magic this and Maker that, and he would have given anything to have enough magic just to turn himself invisible, walk out unnoticed, and never return.

In the end, though, he never saw much use of magic in his time at the chantry. Despite all the talk about mages serving this or that, he really watched little of it done. Once or twice he'd seen the sparkle of an enchanted amulet or the glow of a rune-engraved sword. Another time a wizened mage, though without the long, white beard or pointed hat he'd come to expect, visited the chapel library for three days to review some books on preserving phylacteries. But even then he hadn't been able to talk with the man, as flanked as he'd been by two _very_ stern-looking templars. Even at that young age, Alistair knew he could only stand so much double cleaning duty.

Aside from those few instances, he never saw any other evidence of magic. No spells, no curses, not even a trick to pull a coin from behind his ear. As far as he could tell, mages didn't seem to do much of anything of interest. If the words of the visiting Tower templars were to be believed, they actually spent much of their time learning how to use and control their magic, and any real use of it was carefully regulated by endless paperwork and plentiful glaring from the aforementioned templars.

This information only solidified in his mind that being a templar was going to be very dull and horrible and that all of this was a very, _very_ bad idea.

And so when Duncan conscripted him into the Grey Wardens, saying he was overjoyed would have been an understatement. Sure, it still involved putting on a suit of armor and marching around with a sword and shield, but there was considerably less sermonizing and lecturing involved, and he considered that a step up. Over the months that followed, which included the Joining, all of the by-the-way's about being a Warden, and the march to Ostagar to battle the Blight, he had nearly put the thought of mages and their abilities out of his mind.

As fate would have it, though, it was a mage that Duncan sent to fetch him as though he were a morning errand. And of course she would witness the spat with the other mage about a ridiculous little message from the camp's Revered Mother. And _of course_ he would say, without taking into account her robes, the staff, or any other obvious signs beforehand, "You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

Then those obvious signs finally got through to his thick head, and he wanted to smack himself. He'd never even taken his templar vows, and already he was doing _so well_ with mages. He wondered if he should go get a shovel and start digging his grave to save her the trouble, because she was surely going to cast a fireball at him or turn him into a toad or something equally horrible after a comment like that.

Mages did things like that, didn't they? Casting fireballs and turning people into toads with impunity?

Instead, she giggled. "I know exactly what you mean."

Without considering that he should really, if he had any intelligence left in his skull, quit while ahead, he said, "It's like a party; we could all stand in a circle and hold hands. _That_ would give the darkspawn something to think about."

Then she, against all odds and reason itself, laughed. She actually laughed. And not at him! He felt the corner of his mouth twitch up.

Well, at least she liked his jokes.

Still, he thought, it was better to check on these things to be sure. After all, maybe staves and Circle robes were all the rage in the capital these days.

"Wait, we haven't met, have we?" he asked. "I don't suppose you happen to be another mage?"

An arch grin tugged at her lips. "Would that make your day worse?"

"Hardly," he replied. "I just like to know my chances of being turned into a toad at any given moment."

He inwardly cringed, glancing away. Maker, he was certainly doing a fine job of digging himself _deeper_.

He looked back at her, expecting at least some sharp retort along the lines of what he'd just received from the other mage. But her amused smile lingered, and she seemed to wait for him to go on.

That was when he recognized her – the new recruit from the Circle of Magi who Duncan had mentioned, though her name escaped him at the moment. She was about a head shorter than himself, with round, dark brown eyes and equally dark brown hair cut to the bottom of her jaw. She also had a rather… pasty complexion, he noted; like that of bleached paper. He assumed she hadn't been out in the baking summer long enough to tan past it, or to burn completely over.

He wondered briefly if the quartermaster had some lotion in stock for such things. He couldn't imagine being sunburned – on top of everything else – would help her focus.

Though, knowing the events ahead, it might not matter anyway…

Even so, it was a good idea to make amends.

"Wait. I _do_ know who you are," he hurriedly added. "You're Duncan's new recruit, from the Circle of Magi. I should have recognized you right away. I apologize."

Her smile softened a little. "That's all right. No offense taken."

He relaxed slightly. His chances of survival were certainly looking up. "Good," he said. "You didn't exactly catch me at my finest with the mage there." He politely inclined his head towards her. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Alistair, the new Grey Warden, though I guess you knew that. As the junior member of the Order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining."

She gave a small bow of her own in return. "Pleased to meet you. My name is Solona Amell."

Oh, thank Andraste. He didn't have to _ask_. "Right. That was the name," he said, nodding. Then he continued, "You know, it just occurred to me that there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is?"

Oh, Maker, there went his first impression. Now she was going think he was a drooling lecher!

But again her response defied his expectations. "Really?" she said, arching an eyebrow at him. "You know, the other two recruits seemed surprised at that as well. Should I check to make sure I'm not a man?"

He chuckled. "Oh? And how would you go about that?"

Before he could stop her, she pulled on the collar of her yellow Circle robe and looked down into it. He felt his cheeks warm a little as she replied, "So far, I look like a woman."

He breathed a small sigh of relief when she released her top.

Then she asked, "Should I check the other bits as well?"

The heat in his cheeks turned into a full-blown blush. "No, no!" he cried, shaking his head. "I'm convinced, really."

She laughed. "Are you sure?"

He pressed a hand to his scorching face and looked away. "Maker, yes," he said. "I'm _very_ sure."

She laughed again, and even he couldn't help smiling a little at it all as well.

Well, that showed him to ask stupid questions.


	2. Fire-Making Foibles

Chapter 2: Fire-Making Foibles

To say the least, Ostagar did not go as planned. In fact, pretty much every bit of it had gone south. Or perhaps, rather, "north" in this case, as that was where the darkspawn were now headed and the direction in which they were fleeing.

Or perhaps, rather, _trying_ to flee. If Alistair's skill with simple survival tactics didn't doom them to die from the elements first.

He should have been able to do this in his sleep. It was a simple task, one he had done countless times before in the chantry kitchens and the Grey Warden camps (when there had still been enough of them to make the word "camp" plural at all). Maker, he _prided_ himself on getting fires started quickly and neatly. He had even received compliments on it! He could remember very specifically that Brother Delmar had once said to him, "You've become quite the master at that, Alistair. You only had to try once to get it going, didn't you? I know men twice your age who still can't do it after a dozen attempts."

It had actually taken him several tries to get the fire going then, and Brother Delmar would praise a cow if he could, but those were all irrelevant details. What was relevant was that he should have been able to do this without a problem. He knew all the steps, had done it plenty and reliably in the past, and had all the needed materials laid out before him and ready to go.

He silently recited the steps to himself: Hold the steel in one hand, angle it towards the char cloth, and strike the steel with the piece of flint. After lighting the cloth, put it in the tinder bundle, blow on it until it caught flame, and then light the edges of the larger pile of wood and tinder before throwing it in. In short time, there would be a lovely little campfire, and everything would be just swell, and he would not still be sitting here _hopelessly_ striking the steel with the flint over and over again in _full view_ of two young women perfectly capable of judging him. And, to top it all off, this had to happen right after nearly _dying_ with Duncan and everyone else and being left one of the _last two Grey Wardens_ in all of Ferelden after _that backstabbing traitor Loghain Mac Tir's betrayal_-

The next strike cracked the flint clean into two useless pieces. He stared at it, feeling like breaking down into tears right then and there, manly pride be damned.

Instead, he sucked in all of his frustration, rage, and grief, turned away, and dug through his pack for a spare. But the world must have been feeling especially cruel that day, because for the life of him – despite explicitly remembering that he had put an extra in his belongings somewhere – he could not find it. Disgusted with himself and most everything at the moment, he was just about to stand up and kick his bag clear across camp when Solona approached.

"Er… Do you need any help, Alistair?" she asked.

"No," he bit out.

She cringed; not much, but it was enough to make him feel a tiny twinge of regret in his chest. He didn't mean to be so harsh, but, by the Blight, now was really not a good time to talk, especially not about what was quickly becoming another one of his greatest failures.

"It wouldn't be any trouble, I swear," she said with a weak smile. "And you've stacked the wood and tinder together very nicely already."

Maker's breath, was she actually insisting? "No," Alistair very-nearly-but-not-quite-shouted-because-he-did-_not_-shout. "No, I don't need any help at all. I… I just remembered that I need a bit more firewood, and I'll be right back."

And then he turned and marched off without another word, because right then he so badly needed a moment alone to gather himself up from the pieces he was quickly breaking into.

He walked far into the forest, uncaring of the twigs and dry leaves cracking underneath his boots, until he could barely make out the top of one of the tents in the darkening sunset. There he stopped. For a moment he considered just throwing himself against the ground below him and letting it all out, to yell and sob into the uncaring dirt, but the very idea made his shoulders tense and his head ache.

He couldn't be weak, not when so much was riding on him. And Solona, too. He couldn't make her deal with his anger and grief, not when she already had to deal with the consequences of becoming a Grey Warden.

Many of which she still didn't know about, he reminded himself.

Instead he kneeled down, closed his eyes, and concentrated. He corralled all of his emotions – which demanded he scream, cry, or _punch something_ – into a small box in his mind, shut the lid, and fixed his attention on all the calm, empty space left behind. He had rather liked this part of his templar training, the discipline and quiet strength it demanded to be able to do things like this. Then again, it was about the only part he liked.

And so he focused on that. The rage, the anguish, the crushing despair, Duncan's death, his fellow Grey Wardens' deaths, the deaths of the soldiers, the death of the king, so much _death_ – pushed and prodded and squeezed until it fit into that little box in his mind. Then there was nothing but quiet. Quiet and calm and unshed tears and the silent shaking of his shoulders that, after several moments, also stilled. Quiet. Only quiet.

After spending some time like that, he felt his heart slow and his muscles relax. His breathing came easier, with less of the stinging tightness around his ribs. He didn't know how much of the pain he felt was from lingering wounds from the darkspawn at the Tower of Ishal or from his own sorrow. He wiped his eyes with a still-unsteady hand and was dully surprised when he didn't feel more moisture.

But he knew there was no use in delaying the inevitable. He stumbled to his feet, half-heartedly gathered up a few of the larger sticks lying around, and dragged himself back to camp.

And to Solona. She had said something about helping. Perhaps she had another piece of flint he could use? There couldn't be any harm in asking, he thought. He could still prove his ability to at the very least start a fire. Not all was lost. Not yet.

When he got back, though, a fire was already merrily blazing where he had set up the fuel for it.

Solona cast a hand around its edges, coaxing it to burn a little more evenly as the flame magically dipped and spun around her fingers.

_Of course_, he thought.

He frowned, and, across camp, Morrigan tried to stifle a chuckle as she watched from her own tent. Hearing this, Solona looked up and spotted him, and her focused expression gave way to one of sheepishness.

She scooted over to give him enough room on the fallen tree that barely qualified as such any longer, much less as a seat. He didn't bother arguing with her or making any snippy remarks. He sat down, put his hands out to warm them, and didn't question it.

After all, he _had_ stacked the wood and tinder together quite nicely.


	3. The Qunari Quandary

Author's Notes: I dedicate this chapter to Sten, whom I still have no idea how I got to like my Warden so much and so early in the game. I also dedicate it to Alistair's hair.

Chapter 3: The Qunari Quandary

There was something to be said about letting just anyone tag along on their journey, and it wasn't good.

Yes, Alistair knew they needed practically all the help they could get, as anyone with a working brain could tell that two Grey Wardens versus a horde of darkspawn and an archdemon were not good odds. But that didn't excuse picking up just anyone. He would have been fine if they had found a few willing militiamen, some mercenaries, or even a templar or two to bring on, and he actually kind of liked the hound they had encountered on the road. But a lay sister and a qunari?

He had heard the Circle mages were oftentimes eccentric, but now he wondered if they were simply insane.

If he had known that this would happen, he would never have agreed to take Morrigan with them on the same basis. By the Maker, he shouldn't have agreed to take that witch on regardless.

The way she looked at him made all the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his templar training shout at him to either fight or flee. Or maybe it was just instinct, and the templar training wasn't necessary to tell that she was the sort of evil that not even a really good hug and a warm glass of milk could help. In fact, she'd probably claw his face off if he tried any such thing, not that he wanted to anyway.

And, as if that wasn't bad enough, he was quite sure that, judging by the glances that slipped his way every so often when she and Solona talked, they were _gossiping_ about him as well. And probably making templar jokes. And insulting his hair. Why was it always the hair?

Alistair leaned against a wooden fence and sighed. Across the street he could see the lay sister – Leliana, he recalled – attempting to converse with the witch – or more likely testing her patience, if the latter's expression was anything to go by – and the mabari snuffling around the edges of a barrel.

He started to walk over to pull the dog away, just in case the barrel had someone's food or precious-and-easily-destroyed belongings in it. After all, he thought, it wouldn't do to have the town's inhabitants hate them even _more_ in addition to Loghain's lies and the bounty on their heads. But that was when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something in the fields that nearly made him fall right over.

Solona was talking to the freed qunari. With no armor or real weapon (the staff didn't count). And _alone_.

By the time he had finished sprinting over, however, Solona was already walking away. Unharmed. And looking _happy_, amazingly enough. Then, as if just to settle the fact that he was an awful savior – and perhaps that she hadn't needed his help to begin with – she waved at him and said, "Oh, Alistair, do you need to talk to Sten, too?"

The glare the giant gave him spoke volumes about how very _un_-open he was to the prospect.

Alistair struggled for an answer that wouldn't get him either crushed or flambéed. "Uh, er, no," he said. "Actually, I have a question for you."

"What is it?"

And now he had to come up with a question. With the qunari watching, no less. "Umm." He became aware that he was desperately running his hand through his hair. A dead giveaway.

Oh, Maker, there was no way they didn't know now that he had been lying. Rather than admitting humiliating defeat (and his real reasons for dashing over), though, he found himself asking the most ridiculous question that had ever come out of his mouth:

"How does my hair look?"

Yes, he had run like a madman all the way over here to ask her _that_. If there were such a thing as a stupid question contest, he surely would have won first place.

She blinked at him, a little surprised. Then she lifted her gaze to the top of his head and studied it. By the Flames, was she actually taking his question seriously?

"Lean down," she said, and he did.

The next moment, he could feel her fingers threading through his hair, and suddenly he didn't care quite so much that the qunari was right next to them. The digits glided through his locks, fingertips brushing against his scalp, as she gently guided his hair this way and that. He had no idea such a simple action could feel so good, comforting yet sending wonderful little tingles down his spine. The few times before, when Sister Claire had examined the children for lice in the abbey – all harsh yanks and pulls and hissing _hold still's_ – had been nothing like this. Solona's hands were tender and kind, carding through his hair and stroking his skin like a soft wind.

He couldn't remember when someone had last touched him like that.

Before he was even close to ready for her to stop, she did exactly that and said, "All right, that should do it."

She gestured to a puddle left over from last night's rain, and he looked into it. Through its murkiness, he could make out his reflection, and he had to admit his hair did seem a bit improved. Last he had seen in a shop mirror, the trek to Lothering and the battles that followed had thrown the strands all out of place, and his pulling on them just a moment ago probably hadn't helped much either. But now it looked closer to the style he usually wore, standing up and flat across the front, though several wisps still stubbornly drooped down onto his forehead.

He was about to tell her that she had missed a few when she said, "Excuse me, Alistair, but I have to go get something real quick. I'll be right back," and trotted off.

Leaving _him_ with the qunari. Alone. And now he wasn't certain that any amount of armor or weapons would help.

The giant crossed his arms and stared at him with his strange, violet eyes (and what kind of person _had_ violet eyes anyway?), as though the qunari were a very large, very irritated cat waiting to see what its source of annoyance would do next. In this case, Alistair was sure the correct answer would have been to go away and never come back.

But he was a Grey Warden, and Grey Wardens did _not_ run shrieking like little children away from gigantic, glowering men. He had the reputation of the Order to stand up for here! And his pride (which was still smarting from the campfire incident, by the way). But mostly the Order.

"So," he drawled, "lovely weather today. Much better than last night."

Though the qunari said nothing in response, his glare seemed to intensify.

"Of course, having been outside in a cage, you probably already know that," he added.

Still nothing.

"Can't imagine it was very comfortable. Did they at least give you a blanket, or a pillow, or anything?"

Silence.

"I'll take that as a 'no,'" he said. "You know – Sten, is it? – you don't seem to talk much."

He was pretty sure he heard a slight groan that time.

The conversation lapsed then, broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind through the wheat stalks, the clucking of hens from a nearby coop, and the sound of someone loading up a cart in the distance. Several minutes passed thus, Alistair refusing to run like a coward (as much as he wanted to), and the qunari… Well, he didn't seem to care about much of anything one way or the other.

Then a thought occurred to Alistair, and he grinned. "Don't you have something to do? Standing in the middle of a field doesn't seem very productive."

A point for the Grey Wardens and himself!

"And you do not?" the giant snapped.

And a point for the qunari.

Alistair frowned. "Hey! I'll have you know I have very important business to discuss with Solona. Important Grey Warden business. _Secret_, important Grey Warden business. Which means you aren't allowed to listen in."

Hah, that'd get the qunari to move!

"Then I suggest you go elsewhere for it."

Or not.

Alistair dug through his mind for a good reply, but nothing came.

He had never been very skilled with thinking up something witty to say on the spot. It seemed like the clever retorts and comebacks only came a good ten minutes or so after the moment in question, when his opponent had already walked away with the victory in hand and he was left looking like a buffoon.

In any case, by now, the qunari was glaring at him as though he could set him on fire with his eyes alone, and he really had no idea how to extract himself from the situation.

Perhaps he _should_ have just walked away when he had the chance…

Fortunately, he was saved from having to come up with something to break the tension (which he wasn't sure was even possible at this point) when Solona rounded the corner of a house and jogged up to them with a basket in hand.

Wait, a basket?

"Here, Sten, this should help some," she said and gave it to the qunari.

As the giant pulled down the cloth over the contents, the mouth-watering smells of baked chicken, warm bread, and _was-that-freshly-made-apple-juice_ hit Alistair's nose. Stunned, he could only watch as the qunari uncapped the container of juice and took a long drink before proceeding to the food with noticeable vigor. With each bite and swallow, the qunari's shoulders relaxed from a stiff rigidity that he had thought was simply natural for the giant, and he began to realize he may have been much closer to getting torn apart like the food in the man's hands than he initially realized.

Alistair decided then and there he was adding "qunari-queller" to the list of Solona's uses. Perhaps it was just fine to let her talk to large, threatening men if it got them to be a bit less, well, threatening. Or even let her use those wonderful fingers on them as she'd done to him a bit ago. Hah, yes, he'd pay to see a big, tough-looking man whimpering and at the mercy of her skilled, nimble hands-

Wait, that hadn't come out right.

He suddenly became aware that Solona had indeed started talking to the qunari again, something about supplies and a bath, and he caught the sentence: "After that, we can see about getting you some armor and a sword."

Then again, perhaps he _should_ stop her…


	4. Money Matters

Author's Notes: Hey, everyone, in addition to a new chapter, I also went back and made some minor edits to the previous chapters, especially to the ending of chapter three to get rid of some of the excess mushiness. So, hopefully that all reads a little better now.

Snarkoleptic - I'm so glad to hear that you like the story and I've been on the right track for comedy! Yes, I do hope it will be quite the amusing ride as well; I have a lot of little funny ideas in mind for this story. Thank you for the wonderful review.

Rose Tinted Contact Lenses - Aw, thank you for the lovely review! It's great to hear you're enjoying the story and find it so upbeat. I was really hoping to help add to the collection of happier-toned Dragon Age stories out there, so it's nice to know I'm doing well on that account so far.

For everyone else who's been following along, thank you for reading. Please enjoy the following (long) chapter!

Chapter 4: Money Matters

There was also something to be said about letting a mage handle their funds, and, like the tagging-along issue, it wasn't good either.

At first, in Ostagar, Solona had been absolutely bewildered by the coins. Copper, silver, or gold, it had mattered little to her until Daveth pointed out that they had more uses than repeatedly flipping them to see how many times she got heads and, no, they did not include flipping them at other people.

Then, when Ser Jory demanded how she could possibly not know about such a simple thing as money, she had explained that, though arriving mages sometimes smuggled coins into the Circle Tower, they more often found a place as game pieces than anything else. If the templars didn't find and simply confiscate them first. With nothing to buy and so few successful escapes, coins were actually worth very little there.

Alistair supposed that, really, he should have taken that as a warning sign. But then the battle at Ostagar had gone horribly wrong, and there had been little time to dread the full extent of what he had on his hands with the new Warden, as busy as he was dreading all of the other, much larger problems that had suddenly crashed down around them.

It was only now, as they stopped to resupply in Lothering, that he realized how very easily this inexperience of hers could turn into a large problem itself. And they _really_ did not need more problems right now.

She had initially made small purchases, buying things like bread, dried meat, and poultices. She had been cautious and focused on what they truly needed, as though their funds were a well that would dry up without any warning if she so much as took an unnecessary drop from it. He hadn't minded that. In fact, he had rather liked it, and he had hoped they might use the leftover coin to upgrade their equipment sometime soon or hire on some extra hands that were not crazy, evil, or from half-way across the world.

But then that fear of disappearing money had evaporated as she gained confidence in her haggling ability. Which was not so much a haggling ability as it was intimidation. Which was not so much intimidation as it was her staring at the shopkeepers and repeating her offered price until she finally stated that she was a mage and then they couldn't seem to throw their goods at her fast enough.

At least Sten (he supposed he should remember the qunari's name, now that he was going to stay) seemed to approve of her method.

In short order, Solona went from purchasing the plainest of food for a few bits to buying a nice meal for Sten for thirty to nearly losing all of their money over every trinket she came across. By the time Alistair discovered just how quickly and how much worse the dilemma had grown, it was nearly too late.

He had been admiring a small, carved statuette in an otherwise empty store window when he saw in the reflection a sight that gave him considerable pause for numerous reasons: Solona was giving Morrigan a golden necklace. A very nice golden necklace, from what he could tell. It glittered in the sun, and Alistair almost wondered how it might look on the Circle mage but didn't because by then it was in the hands of the witch and he wouldn't dare try touching it in a hundred years after that.

Now, the first twenty reasons why this gave him considerable pause consisted solely of the fact that Solona had given Morrigan a gift. Yes, a gift to _her_ – an untrustworthy apostate-witch, a veritable shrew of a woman with little feeling and even less morality, who sneered at him so much he swore she could make a block of ice look warm. The absurdity of this action struck what little was left of his sense of rationality so hard that it bore mentally repeating it nineteen more times just to ascertain it was real.

The other reason why this gave him considerable pause was that he wondered how Solona found such a thing in Lothering to begin with. Most everyone with any wealth had left town long ago, and since then bandits had not wasted any time in looting what remained. Surely no one here would still be in the possession of jewelry like that. Right?

But that was, without a doubt, a gold necklace Morrigan now had fastened around her neck. The way the light twisted and flashed against its length left no room for uncertainty.

"Doesn't she look so lovely?" a voice tittered from next to him.

Alistair jumped. "Gah!"

He looked down and found just the person he wanted to talk to. He crossed his arms and glared at her, partly to cover his shock and partly because he really was quite displeased with her.

"Solona," he said, "where exactly did you find that necklace? And how much was it?"

She stared up at him. "From Dane's Refuge, for eleven silver." Then she paused in thought. "Oh, and I also bought a bottle of wine, a pretty ring, and a bronze plate with Andraste's symbol on it." She dug around in her satchel before bringing the latter-most item out and holding it up for him to view. "Do you think Leliana will like it? Sisters like things like this, don't they?"

Alistair felt like smacking himself. Or shaking Solona by the shoulders. Or dumping Morrigan in the creek. Actually, he rather liked that last idea a good deal.

But back to the matter at hand. "Solona," he began slowly, as if explaining to a small child, "you can't buy everything you see just because it looks nice."

She gave him a confused stare. "But I already bought our supplies, and we have enough to spare."

He pushed the bronze plate away. "Things like this are trivial. We don't need them. What's more important is traveling light and getting aid for the Blight as quickly as possible."

"But we already decided not to leave town until this afternoon, and none of this is heavy."

"That doesn't excuse buying unnecessary things," he said.

"They're not unnecessary," she replied, a crease in her brow. "They improve morale."

He sighed. "No one's morale needs to be improved. We just started on our journey, so there's no reason for it."

At that, she slapped her hands onto her hips with a scowl. "Really, Alistair? There's a Blight going on, we lost Ostagar, everything's on us, and you say morale isn't low?"

The reality of their situation engulfed Alistair all over again in that one sentence like a wave over his mind. The hopelessness, the despair, the _sheer insanity_ of what they were even attempting… He staggered and leaned against the wall of the store behind him as all of the blood seemed to leave his body.

Solona took his hand and squeezed it. "I… I'm sorry." She chewed on her lower lip while he tried to pull himself together once more. "Listen, there were some other things I was thinking of buying. How about you come along with me? That way, we can decide together on what to get."

He knew he would regret it, but, Maker, if he could convince her to stop spending all their money, especially on Morrigan of all people… "Fine," he said. "Lead the way."

And she did. Over to the merchant who had threatened to charge ridiculous prices for his wares earlier.

"Back to buy something?" the man spat.

Oh, that was right; they hadn't exactly taken his side in the argument. In fact, if Alistair remembered rightly, Solona had actually convinced him to _lower_ his prices.

"Sure am!" the mage chirped.

At least she was proving herself impervious to glares. Perhaps it had something to do with growing up in the Tower, which was probably full of nothing but scowling templars. A rather handy skill to have in life, he thought, considering that half of Ferelden's population seemed to do nothing but.

Sighing, the merchant began opening up boxes and setting out his merchandise. "Fine. Just don't buy _everything_ up."

Alistair could only hope she wouldn't as her eyes promptly landed on a brightly colored children's ball. "Oh! Alistair, what do you think? Captain Cuddles would love that."

He blinked. "Captain Cuddles?"

She pointed to the mabari hound, who currently busied himself with marking a tree down the road.

He grimaced. "You named the dog _Captain Cuddles_?"

She shrugged. "Why not? He's good at cuddling." She wiggled her fingers at him. "The _lethal_ sort of cuddling."

Alistair barely held back a snicker. "That's a terrible name!" he said instead.

She scowled at him. "It is _not_. I'll have you know a friend of mine once had a cat he named Princess Poofy-Puss, and no one complained!"

_Probably because they were _laughing_ too hard_, Alistair thought. He opened his mouth, about to argue, but then snapped it shut. No, they were here about her spending habits. The discussion on proper pet names would have to wait until later.

The merchant crossed his arms and coughed loudly, bringing both of their attentions back to him and what they had originally come for.

Alistair groaned and said, "No, Solona, not the ball. The dog won't notice the difference between it and a stick, I'm sure."

She mulled it over before nodding – _thankfully_ –and turning to browse again. In the following quarter-hour, Solona picked out and Alistair put back the following: a set of glass plates from Orlais, a book on fashionable hats, three silk pillows, a gigantic toy bear, a kitchen spatula, and a broken quill.

Maker, how had Duncan survived the two weeks it took to reach Ostagar with this woman?

Alistair was beginning to wonder what the merchant _didn't_ have in his cart when Solona's gaze settled on a pair of golden cuffs nestled in the corner of a trunk. He instantly felt the temperature in the air – or perhaps it was just him – climb up several degrees.

She reached for them. "How about-"

He pulled her back. "No."

"But they're-"

"_No._"

She frowned at him. "Are you sure you're not a templar? Because you're acting like one."

"I'm not a templar. I was a templar-_in-training_, and I didn't even like that," he explained. "In any case, believe me when I say you don't want those."

She looked back at the item in question and tilted her head curiously. Bad sign. "Why not?"

He gritted his teeth. "Just trust me on this one."

"Well, if you're not going to explain…"

He sighed. "Fine. You don't want them because they're used for, um, _restraining_ people."

"Like prisoners?" she asked.

"In a way," he muttered.

She tilted her head at the cuffs again. "They must be very rich prisoners then." She paused in thought. "But isn't gold too soft to restrain someone with?"

"They're not exactly for prisoners," he said.

Solona snapped her gaze back to him. "But _you_ said- Oh." Her eyes widened. "_Ohh._ You meant they're for sex. I get it now!"

This time Alistair really did smack himself in the face. He could only hope his hand also covered the blush that was rapidly forming there. "Yes, that's what I meant. Now can we please drop the subject already?"

She giggled. "Oh, all right. If you really want, I won't talk about sex."

"Thank you."

"Even though sex is quite the fascinating topic-"

"No, it's not."

"Why, did you know that King Calenhad had sex with-"

"No, I don't want to know!"

At this point, the merchant was fuming. "If you're not going to buy anything, you pests," he growled, "then leave already!"

Taken aback, Solona secured a firm grip of Alistair's arm, blew the merchant a raspberry, and stalked away with her companion in tow. Only once they reached the edge of town did she stop and lean against the edge of a well. "How rude!" she grumbled. "We were just having a little fun."

Alistair said nothing in return and instead kept his head down. He knew there was no use trying to hide the flush on his cheeks now. He just prayed that none of the townsfolk would get a good look at him and realize he was traveling with the crazy mage who yelled about certain private activities. Maybe he could lie and say he didn't know her if anyone asked.

She peered up at him, her brow furrowed. "Are you all right, Alistair?" No answer. "Oh, um, I kind of ruined things back there, didn't I?"

"Oh, no, _not at all_," Alistair replied. "In fact, there's nothing quite like a bit of humiliation to brighten my day. Thank you _ever so much_."

She frowned and reached for his hand, but he pulled it away. For several moments she stood there awkwardly, twisting her fingers and clearly uncertain of what to do. "Well, I, uh… I thought you would have-"

At his sudden glare, she stopped short and clasped her hands together.

"I'm sorry, Alistair, for embarrassing you like that." She turned her gaze to the ground. "I, um… I'll just leave you alone now."

Then she walked away.

Alistair breathed a sigh of relief as she did. He watched her go, her shoulders drooping but her feet quick, until she disappeared around the corner of a wooden shack.

Honestly, he thought sourly, being with her was like taking care of a child at times. Inexperienced, immature, easily distracted, uncaring of others' opinions – these were just a few of her _wonderful_ qualities that he had discovered in the past week, and already he felt this journey couldn't get any worse. The only good thing about her was that she at least wasn't evil like Morrigan. Or really much like Morrigan in any way.

In fact, she had been pretty nice. And very sweet, even, when he considered it.

She liked his sense of humor and laughed at his jokes. She had tried to cheer him up when he had been on the verge of collapse after Ostagar. She helped out with the camp chores even though she could have fairly said she didn't know how and excused herself. He had seen her slip the hound (he refused to use the name Captain Cuddles) fresh bones after dinner from time to time. She had given Sten food, new clothing, and a chance to bathe not even an hour after meeting him. And just recently she had bought gifts for Morrigan and Leliana to help improve their spirits.

And it wasn't as though she was in a much better boat than him. After all, she had, what, a whole several weeks of experience outside of the Circle Tower that she could remember for the first time in ages, perhaps her entire life? He couldn't really blame her for that.

Alistair considered the possibility that he may have overreacted to her teasing and artlessness. Just a bit.

His shoulders slumped as he stepped up to the well and lowered the bucket down to get some water. After winching it back up, he slapped some against his face and hair. The chill of the water snapped him back to attention and refreshed his mind, clearing it of the anger he felt.

And now he just felt ashamed. Sighing, he reached for the piece of cotton he kept in his pocket, only to realize he had left it in his pack. Which was, fortunately, past a mere couple of houses, near the road out of town. He began making his way over to where they had left their supplies.

Only to stop as a flash of red caught his eye.

It was a flower, a solitary rose the color of crimson fixed within the center of an otherwise dry, untended mass of brambles hanging on a cottage wall trellis. He carefully reached within to stroke the blossom, his eyes softening a little at the sight. It had just begun to bloom, its delicate petals still velvety to touch and sweet of smell as they stretched open in a brilliant spiral.

It struck him as odd, this lone blooming rose long past spring. Since leaving the Korcari Wilds, he had seen anemones, marigolds, and other such summer flowers, but no roses. Until now, that was.

"Well, you came out a little late," he murmured with a chuckle.

He ran his fingers across the rose one more time and then began to pull away. But, suddenly, there, the petal rested on his fingertip just so, catching the sunlight in such a way: it reminded him briefly of Solona, of how her cheeks would flush as she laughed, or of the red of her lips, curved and smiling. The memory of it brought a smile to his face in turn, and he reached back within and held the blossom against his palm. Just a moment longer, he told himself.

But then he thought of the darkspawn. There was no doubt they would come, and when they did, nothing in Lothering would be left untouched. Not the houses, not the chantry, and certainly not the rose.

He looked about, straining to catch some sight of where the owner of the cottage might be. But the place had been long abandoned, the rest of the garden wild and overgrown, and the door of the house thrown open and the empty interior left to the caprice of the wind and weather.

He glanced back, ascertaining that no one was watching, before reaching further down and, careful of the thorns, breaking the stem from the withered vine. Then he gently lifted the rose up and out of the winding brambles and, with a smile, pressed it lightly against his chest as he then turned and carried on his way.

Soon enough, he found their supplies, as well as Sten, who was keeping watch over them. He gave a quick nod to the qunari, but the man made no sign of having noticed. With a shrug, he dug out his own pack and set into it, first finding the small, thin box he had once kept his flint and steel in, knocking it against his knee to clear out any remaining dust, and setting the rose inside before searching for a cloth.

As he did, however, his hand came upon a piece of oddly carved wood. Pulling the item out, he discovered it to be the figurine he had looked at in the shop earlier.

He gave Sten a questioning look, to which the giant answered, "The Warden."

Alistair turned his eyes back to the statuette and smiled. Perhaps it wasn't so bad letting Solona handle the money, he thought. After all, she was getting them some pretty good deals, what with the "I'm a scary mage" act and all. (He was reasonably sure it was an act, at any rate.)

If nothing else, it was amusing to see the confidence of the more conceited merchants turn to dust in the face of someone who could turn them into mice in an instant. At least, that's what he supposed they were thinking, as she never actually made that threat. Mostly she just stood watching them in silence, waiting for them to stop shaking in fear. Which didn't really help either, considering that Sten did the same thing and scared everyone all the more for it.

He chuckled and gently slid the figurine back into his pack. Then, after searching again, he found the cloth he had been looking for and wiped off the drops of water that still clung to his skin and hair. As he passed it over his eyes, the sound of footsteps crunching against the dirt path met his ears. He pulled the cloth away and looked up to see Leliana and Solona walking down the road and chatting in soft voices.

Then the latter suddenly came to a halt at the sight of him and instead turned her attention to a fence, much to the apparent confusion of the sister. Alistair frowned and gave a mental sigh. He stood and, taking a deep breath, prepared himself to march over and apologize.

Whereupon a piercing scream erupted from the Imperial Highway behind him, and he abruptly found himself running there instead to find the source.

The next moment, he was in the midst of battle against a small group of darkspawn with Sten at his side and Solona and Leliana at his back. Behind them, two dwarven men hid amongst the broken crates that littered the road. His sword hissed against armor and flesh, his legs strained as he alternately pushed and dodged, and his shout echoed across the ruins as he drove all his strength and willpower down, down into the hurlock's chest, and suddenly it was all over.

The air stilled and silence set in once again.

They turned their attention to the dwarves, who looked suitably cowed from the near-death experience. Alistair followed their gaze to find it on Solona. Oh, and from magic. Always magic.

"Mighty fine timing there, my friend. I'm much obliged," the older man greeted as he approached the group, and Alistair had to admire that his voice only faltered a little.

"You're welcome," Solona replied.

"Name's Bodahn Feddic, merchant and entrepreneur. This here is my son, Sandal." He turned to the other, younger dwarf. "Say hello, my boy."

Alistair grinned as the words hit his ears, and he stepped up to speak. "A merchant, you say?"

From next to him, Solona flinched, likely expecting some sort of retribution for earlier.

But, instead, he placed a kindly – albeit blood-covered – hand on her shoulder and asked, "Mind telling us what sorts of things you sell? My friend Solona here is looking to make a few purchases. Oh, and don't mind the magic thing – she's only turned a _few_ people into toads so far today."


	5. Rainy Recreation

Author's Notes: And here's another chapter! No significant edits to previous chapters this time around, just minor changes to word choice and such.

Snarkoleptic - Wow, thank you for all the kind words! It's awesome to hear you're enjoying the story so much. Yes, it always bothered me as well how easily so many of the origins adjusted to their new lives, but I know the developers only had so much time and money to get it all done with. But, exploring such aspects is what fan-fiction is all about! I'm glad to hear that I've been doing so well with the realism. And, if your cats get angry with the name, don't tell them who you got it from! xD

Rose Tinted Contact Lenses - Thank you for another lovely review! It's great to know you're finding the story so funny. And, yes, Alistair can be such a killjoy at times, I couldn't help but play with that a little.

Chapter 5: Rainy Recreation

Rain. Alistair had never liked the rain.

In Redcliffe as a boy, it had meant staying inside the stables all day, the air thick with the odors of dust, sweat, and manure, or else in the kennels, where the smell was even worse. In Denerim, it had meant staying inside listening to Chanters Hayden and Ean, who could not have sounded more monotonous if they tried.

He honestly still wasn't sure which had been more dreadful to endure.

And, now, rain meant trying to find cover during one's night watch because staying in one's tent did not, in fact, lend to one's acuity very well. He had discovered that bit of knowledge when given the task of lookout in a Grey Warden camp, back when there had been more than just two of them.

He had crawled into his tent then, thinking he would easily be able to hear any approaching danger just as well as see it in the dark otherwise. Instead, he had fallen deeply asleep not five minutes later to the sound of the pelting rain, likely the result of the nightmares having been especially exhausting that past week. In the morning, his comrades had thanked him by dumping a bucketful of ice-cold river water on his head as a wakeup call.

With two mages and a qunari in camp now, Alistair didn't dare push his luck. If he nodded off while on watch, he knew a bit of water would be the least of his worries. More than likely, he would end up voluntarily throwing _himself_ into an ice-cold river to escape the punishment that awaited him on shore.

So he didn't. He stayed outside in the rain, huddled up next to the sputtering campfire he had to prod every other minute to keep alight, and did his job as the lookout.

It didn't mean he had to like it, though.

And perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad if he could just find some cover from the weather. The Korcari Wilds, as saturated with perpetual mist as it was, at least had trees. Lots of trees. Which meant lots of shelter. It had rained several times on their way to Lothering, but it had hardly mattered because only a few heavy drops here and there ever broke through the canopy. To land right on his face, of course. A raindrop had also once hit Morrigan straight in the eye when she had stopped to give directions (or orders, more like it), so it had been completely worth it.

In any case, now that they were on the Imperial Highway, there was hardly any cover to be found. He had seen perhaps all of three trees in their time spent marching on the road. Perhaps. They may have actually been bushes; he couldn't be sure. The rest, though, had been fields. Fields of wheat. Fields of rye. Fields of turnips. Fields of barley. Fields of cabbage. And so on and so forth. In other words, no trees to take shelter under, and certainly no protection from the rain. Unless one found a particularly _large_ cabbage, he supposed.

He had already tried holding his armor's chest piece above his head. But the rain simply dripped off the sides and onto his arms, which then ran straight to his shirt and soaked that. After a while his arms got tired and he had to put it down, and then the rain just soaked him through anyway.

He could remember an item that Lady Isolde had oftentimes used when taking a stroll at midday in Redcliffe. It had been a circle-shaped stretch of fabric, with a stick of some kind put in the middle, which a following servant had held up for her. A parasol, he thought she called it. He wondered how effective it might be against the rain. Probably a lot more effective than holding up his armor.

Alistair rocked on his heels and gave a loud sigh. What he wouldn't give for an item like that at the moment. Or a cloak. Yes, a fur-lined cloak dyed black with gold trimming. That would protect him against the cold, wind, _and_ rain. And it would also be much manlier than a silly Orlesian bauble.

But the reality was that he didn't have either, leaving him stuck out in the open with the rain. The cold rain. The soaking rain. The _awful_ rain.

This time he groaned in frustration and drummed his feet against the ground.

"Alistair?"

He nearly shot out of his boots. "Gah!"

"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to surprise you. Again."

Solona peeked out at him from the opening of her tent. And had he just heard her giggle?

"Um, no, you didn't surprise me," he said. "I was, er, trying to see if that surprised _you_ is all. Me shouting and all that. And I can see it didn't! So, uh, good job."

Maker, he felt stupid. Thankfully, she didn't mock him (like Morrigan would have undoubtedly done). Instead, she looked around with an inquisitive expression and asked, "What are you doing without any shelter from the rain? You'll catch a cold."

He grinned. "You don't really believe that, do you? Catching a cold from a bit of rain, I mean," he said, hoping to distract her from the fact that, at this rate, he was pretty sure he would, or worse.

She shrugged. "I don't know. I just heard it all the time from the templars coming in from outside duty, so I assumed that's what happened to you templars."

"Former templar-in-training," he amended. Then his brain caught up with the rest of what she had said. "Waaait, no! Templars do _not_ get colds from a bit of rain. We're not that weak! I mean, _they're_ not that weak. I mean, _I'm_ not that weak. I mean-" He threw his arms up into the air in frustration. "Gah, you know what? Never mind."

"So you mean templars don't have an aversion to water?"

His eyes widened. "No! Of course not! Who told you that?"

She shrugged again. "I said I didn't know. It was just an assumption." Then she rubbed her nose and muttered, "Although the smell of some of them could have fooled me…"

Looking at Solona, Alistair suddenly realized that she was awake when the whole point of his keeping watch was that she _shouldn't_ be, and he immediately felt ashamed. He flushed and ran a hand through his hair. "I, um… didn't wake you up, did I?"

She looked away, hesitating. So, yes then. "Er, no?"

He sighed. Yet again. "Sorry about that," he said. "It's just not all that pleasant being out here in the rain, and, well, you know me. I can't seem to stop being the noisy one in the group, even at night and all alone."

At the word "alone," a thoughtful expression came over her face. She pushed the tent flap open and pulled her knees up to her chest. "You can talk to me, if you'd like. I don't mind."

He felt the beginnings of a blush creeping up his face, a real, thorough one that probably reached all the way down to his chest. _It's not like that, you idiot_, he told himself. "I, um, no. No, that's quite alright. You should really go back to sleep. You need the rest."

But she didn't. Instead, she looked around again, her eyes flicking from the campfire to his drenched armor to the makeshift log seating and finally to him once more. "You look miserable. Don't you have _anything_ to protect yourself from the rain with?" she asked again.

"Like what?"

"Like… Like…" At last, she shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't much experience with this sort of thing."

He sighed. Of course she wouldn't. And here he had been hoping for some sort of magical solution to pop out of the air and- _Wait_. "Hey, hold on a moment! Didn't you have watch duty a bit ago? And wasn't it raining then, too? Yet you're completely dry," he said, arching an eyebrow at her. "What did _you_ use?"

She cleared her throat and began plucking at the grass next to her tent. "Um… Well, it's not really a formal ability or anything," she muttered. "It's just something I came up with when on the road with Duncan." She looked at him uncertainly. "Do you wish to see?"

He nodded.

She narrowed her eyes, pushed her hand out, and just like that he could see the transparent, floating screen she often used for defense in battle begin to form in the air. He had never had the chance to actually watch how she did it, as busy as he was trying not to get killed the times she summoned it, but now that he could observe the process he found it fascinating.

It started as a small, blue bead he could just barely make out in the dim lightning. Then, like an artisan blowing glass, she sent it flaring out in a cascade of growth that seemed to go on and on. As the rain fell upon the rounded surface, the droplets sent ripples flying across the form before sliding down in abstract paths carved by their slight weights. At some cue he couldn't perceive, she suddenly retracted and flattened the shape until it resembled a very large platter, like one he had seen Arl Eamon once use for a party. And then the metamorphosis was complete, and he saw before him the finished barrier floating several feet off the ground.

Except it was only about a third of the size she usually made it.

"Hey," he whined, feeling cheated, "why is it so small?"

She only smiled and, with a wave of her hand, the screen turned over until it rested horizontal to the ground. Then she gave it a small push to send it up and over to him, where it came to rest above his head.

And blocked out the rain.

"Oh," he said. "Um, thank you."

"You're welcome," she replied.

But then he remembered what a templar in the Denerim chantry had once said about mages maintaining spells in their sleep. Namely, that they couldn't. "Won't this just disappear when you go back to bed?" he asked.

"If it were a regular arcane shield, it would," she said. "But I suppose you could consider this a bit of a mixture of magic and enchantment. Just a little extra mana to keep it going a couple hours without me, that's all. Nothing special."

But it was special. He had a _magical floating shield_ above his head, for Andraste's sake! He felt both a little terrified and absolutely giddy at the mere thought, much less the reality.

"Is… Is it all right to touch it?" he asked.

She yawned. "Hm? Oh, yes. Yes, it's fine to touch."

Alistair reached up and trailed his fingertips across the underside. It was smooth and a little cool. He pushed slightly and watched in fascination as it tilted a bit in response to the pressure.

Solona frowned as the barrier began to list to one side and drift away. "Here, I'll make it so that it's bound to you. Then you shouldn't have to worry about adjusting it if you move or anything."

She closed her eyes to focus, and he couldn't help but stare at the way her dark eyelashes contrasted against her skin or how her lips pursed slightly in concentration in the flickering light. And then she was done and opening her eyes again, and he snapped his gaze back to hers and hoped the darkness covered the blush forming on his cheeks.

"There, that should work," she said.

The shield straightened and set itself squarely above Alistair's head once more.

She yawned again, more loudly this time. "Well, if you don't mind, Alistair, I think I'll go back to sleep now that you're all set. Good night."

"Good night," he replied and watched as she turned and closed the tent flap behind her.

For a while, he simply gazed at the floating barrier in awe. It didn't much help with the cold or the wind, but already he felt a great deal better about the rain.

He eyed Solona's tent, wondering if she had fallen back to sleep yet. He couldn't hear anything in there, and he couldn't make out any shadows through the thick material and low light.

Uncertain, he gave the magical shield a quick poke with his finger. It bounced slightly before sliding back into place above him. Then he pressed his hand full against the barrier and pushed. This time, it glided far enough away for the rain to pour down onto him again before returning just as dutifully.

_Interesting_, he thought.

He stood, and the screen adjusted its height accordingly. When he grabbed it and brought it down to his level, he could feel a slight resistance as it tried to return to its place. He found the rain didn't bother him quite so much now that he had something to focus on.

At first he just inspected the barrier, running his fingers along the dull rim and the smooth sides. He could feel the prickle of magic in the air and in his hands, making a few of his hairs stand up on end. But it was a pleasant feeling, like a cool morning mist washing over him. It was nothing like what the templars and teachers at the chantry had told him, which had warned of horrendous shocks of pain and feeling as though his skin were aflame. But, of course, this was just a shield, and one made specifically for him. He supposed it was quite a bit different actually being shot with lightning or caught in a fireball.

Funny how the Chantry never seemed to mention that difference.

With a grin, Alistair abruptly cast the disc into the air as hard and as fast as he could. It went spinning into the darkness, and he winced as he heard several bushes crack and crunch as it hit them. But no one showed any signs of waking, and the barrier returned to the spot above him in a lazy arc.

The next few times he threw the magical shield he was more careful, ascertaining there were no obstacles in the way before he did so. For a while he enjoyed watching it slice through the rain before coming back, and he made several attempts to see how far it would go. Then, as he got better at handling it, he began trying to see how close he could throw it next to the tents and other objects without actually hitting anything.

In very little time, he had set out a game of points based upon whose things he aimed at and how close he dared to get the shield. His tent, five points. Leliana's tent, which was just on the other side of the fire, ten points. Solona's tent, which was next to his, fifteen (she was still a mage who could cast things like fire and lightning, after all). The hound sleeping under a bush, twelve (he had discovered earlier that the dog had quite the bite). Sten's tent, which rested about ten feet away, thirty (the man _was_ scary). Bodahn and Sandal's tent and cart, which sat near the edge of camp, twenty. And Morrigan's little campsite, which lay beyond the clearing and in amongst the bushes? A whopping sixty points, from a combination of distance, needed dexterity, and disaster potentiality.

Mostly he stuck to throwing the shield in loops around his, Leliana's, and Solona's tents. A few times he bravely sent it around Sten's. Twice he managed to reach all the way over to where the merchant dwarf and his son were. The time he threw it by the mabari, the hound's ears had twitched and a leg kicked, and he decided not to do so again, lest he have a pony-sized dog on his hands that wanted to play fetch. But he didn't dare try Morrigan's camp.

At least not at first. When an entire hour had gone by in this manner and it was nearing the end of his shift, Alistair was feeling bored and more than a little confident.

He at last gave the disc a good, hard swing and watched as it went flying over the simmering fire, past Sten's tent, around Bodahn's cart, and – yes, yes, it was _almost_ there – _straight_ into Morrigan's lean-to rather than around it.

It slammed the main beam out of its socket and shattered several of the lesser supports, and the entire structure immediately collapsed onto the sleeping witch. A bloodcurdling shriek followed right after.

And then the shield returned directly to him.

Oh, Maker, he was dead.

"You!" the witch screamed as she surfaced from the wreck. "I am going to turn you into a _worm_ and leave you for the birds to find, templar!"

At that, Alistair promptly began running in search of a river to cower in.


	6. A Laundry Layover

Chapter 6: A Laundry Layover

About two miles from the Circle Tower, Solona ordered that they stop and bathe. It didn't matter that they could see the top of the keep through the trees (which had finally begun to return as they neared Lake Calenhad) or that they all wanted an actual bed to sleep on for a change. It also didn't matter that this meant taking out the tents and cookware from the cart so they could even reach the washing supplies, which then meant going through the trouble of unhitching said cart from the horse.

The strange horse. The creepy horse. Alistair swore it kept looking at him like he was a ripe apple.

He honestly wondered about that animal. Outwardly, it looked fine, if a little skinny: a large creature with thick, shining hair, likely some sort of mix between a dray horse and another breed. The thing was, they'd found it on an abandoned farmstead near the main road, like one would _just so happen_ to find a bag of gold coins in a ditch. Sure, it'd immensely helped to ease Bodahn and Sandal's burdens since they'd decided to follow along, but still. Who'd leave such a valuable animal behind? And why had no one else taken it already?

Then Morrigan had snapped at him not to look a gift horse in the mouth, which had then sent Solona into a giggling fit. The witch had groaned and marched off in a huff, and no one had thought on it much more since. Except him, apparently. But no one really listened to him in the first place, so there wasn't much use in trying to bring it up further anyway.

Besides which, Leliana had already named it Monsieur de Cheval (he refused to use that name either), and now there was no way they would get rid of it.

In any case, that was beside the point. The current point was that Solona had brought the entire group to a halt at the sound of running water from one of rivers running to the lake and commanded that they all strip and jump in that very moment.

Which was, you know, a little awkward. Surely she didn't mean all of them at once, right?

Of course, it had been more than two weeks of fighting, walking, and using the same clothes and equipment over and over again, and the stench had soaked into not just their garments but into their very skin. It was the sort of smell not even a short dip in a pond and a quick clothes-wringing could help with anymore. It streamed from their pores; it drenched their shoes; it saturated their shirts; it penetrated their armor. Even the dog's eyes watered from it.

On the road, they kept their distance from each other not so much because of any defensive formation but because they simply couldn't stand the smell of one another. At camp, they set up their tents as far from each other's as possible and, if they needed to talk, they just yelled.

In short, they reeked. Horribly.

But as much as they needed a bath and good clothes-washing, Alistair wanted a decent bed and aid for the Blight more. So, when Solona stopped the group, he decided it was worth braving the stench and marching over to her to demand, "Why have we stopped? I can understand wanting a bath, but we're almost there."

As soon as she saw him coming, she pinched her nose shut, and her reply came out tinny and thin: "Exactly! If we want to make a good impression, we need to do this first."

He fought not to laugh. Sniggering didn't really lend to one's ability to push a point very well.

"Good impressions are only good for when you're applying for a job or meeting the Revered Mother for the first time," he said, once he was sure he could say it evenly. "We don't need to make one when we're just going in to request their help. We'll be in and out in five minutes."

"No such thing," she said.

He blinked. "What?"

"Being in and out in five minutes," she explained. "There's no such thing when you're talking to the Knight-Commander or First Enchanter. They'll tell you they want to chat with you for a minute, and before you know it an hour's passed and you're somehow in the middle of a discussion on the benefits of leeks."

He was about to ask her how she could know that when, oh, right, she was a Circle mage and this was her home. Or had been. He hadn't thought to ask her exactly what circumstances she had been recruited under or what loose ends still remained. A niggling little feeling in the back of his mind wondered if, maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a good idea to have her go back into the Tower.

But then he realized Solona was still talking: "If nothing else, taking a bath and washing our clothes means we won't have to worry about their passing out the moment we walk in."

"We don't smell _that_ bad," he said.

Morrigan gave a derisive snort, the hound whined, the horse stamped its hooves, and everyone else shuffled their feet or pointedly coughed.

"What? We _don't_!" Alistair insisted.

"Then your sense of smell has departed from the land of the living, Alistair," Morrigan said. "I hope you made time to bid it farewell."

Before he could make a retort, Solona said, "Trust me on this, Alistair. Duncan couldn't convince Knight-Commander Greagoir to let any more mages go to Ostagar, save for me, and now that that fell through he's probably even _less_ open to the idea." She cast a quick glance around the group before looking back at him. "If we can appear professional and as though we have the resources to do this, then we at least have some credibility. If not, then we can say goodbye to any chance of getting the Circle's help, treaties or no."

_And to any chance of getting that healer's help for Arl Eamon_, Alistair silently added.

When they had heard of the Arl's illness, he had immediately wanted to travel to Redcliffe to see what could be done. Then Solona had pointed out that his best chance of recovery rested in a good healer, which neither she nor Morrigan were, and they had decided to instead head to Kinloch Hold first. She had spoken of a friend of hers there, a young man who specialized in the art of Spirit Healing and who would love nothing more than to get out of the Circle for any reason. She also added (unnecessarily, in Alistair's opinion) that he was kind, charming, and handsome and would be a great addition to their company.

Alistair tried not to feel a little twinge of jealousy at that.

"Fine," he said. "But know that I feel as though we're wasting time with this."

"It won't take long," she promised.

_Have you ever tried to dry your own clothes? It takes absolutely forever_, he thought but then decided against telling her. She'd do better by learning the hard way that fresh garments did not magically come on demand. Well, maybe they did in the Tower for all he knew, but they didn't here and that was his point.

So they split into two groups, one for the men and another for the women, to take turns bathing and cleaning their clothes. But not before finding out that Solona had been quite serious about _all_ of them jumping in right then, and Leliana, thank the Maker, took it upon herself to explain. He could hardly imagine how he would have been able to get through that conversation without turning into a blushing, stuttering idiot. By the Fade, he could hardly imagine the very idea of men and women bathing together in the Circle without blushing!

Then he realized that men and women bathing together in the Circle meant that they had seen each other _naked_ as well. Which led to other thoughts, particularly whether Solona had ever done _it_ and with _whom_-

_That is _entirely_ inappropriate thinking towards another Grey Warden_, he admonished himself. Besides, it wasn't really any of his business who she did _it_ with. After all, they were members of the same order, like brother and sister. He had said as much in the speech to begin her Joining. There was nothing more to their relationship than that. Right?

Alistair found himself unable to believe that entirely.

But then Solona, Morrigan, and Leliana were nearly skipping to the water with bathing supplies and clothing to wash in hand, and it was all he could do to sit down and concentrate on polishing his armor instead. And soon enough it wasn't an issue at all because he was too busy wondering how in the world he had gotten some of the stains and marks he now cleaned off.

_Butter, a leaf of cabbage, and- Wait, what is this? Are those bird feathers?_

He peered over at Sten to see if he could make out any strange blemishes on his armor, but he only saw the qunari scraping off what appeared to be simple blood and dirt. Sighing, he turned back to his own equipment.

Only to find more mystifying stains.

_Is that marmalade? When did we even _have_ any marmalade?_

In the process of scrubbing down his chest piece, greaves, helmet, shield, and other things, Alistair encountered a total of seventeen inexplicable blemishes, four of which he could not even guess at the contents. He began to consider the possibility that this thorough cleaning may have, in fact, been long overdue.

Just as he finished washing off the mud on his boots, he heard the chatter of the women returning. He smiled a little at the thought of at last taking some real time to bathe and clean his clothes. Maker knew what other stains he might find on his garments, considering how bad his armor had been. Then, as the women entered the small clearing, he looked up. And kept looking.

Maker, they were wearing mere_ shifts_.

"You may close your mouth at any time, Alistair," Morrigan said. "Though I suppose 'tis a sight becoming of your intelligence."

He snapped his jaw shut and looked away. Leliana giggled and undoubtedly Morrigan preened, but Solona made no sound at all and that made his gut twist the most. She didn't think he was some drooling lecher for gawking, did she? Because he swore he wasn't a lecher at all. It was just that he had been caught by surprise, and that there had been only those thin garments, and that he had never seen a woman dressed in quite so little (well, aside from Morrigan), and… and…

Sten stood and collected his things for bathing, and Alistair suddenly remembered that it was now the men's turn. Bodahn and Sandal had already started down to the river's edge, and he scrambled to gather his own supplies and garments and follow after.

Once Alistair settled into the water, which had warmed over the course of the day, and at last began washing with some real soap, his mind drifted and he started to unwind. Sten kept to himself, Bodahn offered a little friendly conversation, and Sandal only splashed him once or twice. In all, it was quite pleasant, and the gentle current where they bathed seemed to carry all of his concerns away. By the time they finished cleaning their clothes as well, he felt more than a little drowsy and hopeful that they would have to stay there that night rather than continue on.

Especially since there'd be a lot of mages at the Tower, and he was terrible with mages. And generally didn't get along too well with templars either. In fact, if he had any choice in the matter, he'd probably be better off never stepping foot inside the place at all.

Perhaps they could send a strongly-worded letter instead?

Out of the corner of his eye, Alistair caught sight of Sten returning to shore and drying off. After savoring one last moment in the lovely water, he did the same. Then he pulled on his clean (well, clean_est_) pair of pants and started the short trek back with wet garments in tow. Bodahn and Sandal lingered behind at the water's edge as they gathered up their things, and ahead of him Sten, attired in just a pair of pants like himself, marched up and into the clearing.

When several gasps greeted the qunari's arrival, he halted mid-step in confusion.

He faintly heard Leliana murmur, "Oh _my_, now that… _Oh my_."

Then came Morrigan's voice: "'Tis a sight for sore eyes, is it not, Solona?"

Solona, however, made no comment.

After a long moment, Sten at last grumbled, "Parshaara. Where are the poles for drying clothes?"

"Do not look at me," Morrigan replied. "Give them to Solona. Our dear Warden has decided to be so kind as to dry our clothes for us."

At that, Alistair's curiosity won out, and he came striding into the glade just in time to see Sten dump his garments into Solona's arms.

The mage then proceeded to pull out a single article of clothing, shake off the excess water, and close her eyes and concentrate. The garment she held took on a slight glow and dried before his eyes one moment, and then, the next, the light faded and she handed the article back to Sten. Though the qunari's ever-present grimace seemed to deepen in distaste at the use of magic, he didn't stop her. She repeated the process with each garment, until eventually all of them were dry and in the qunari's arms once more.

"T-That should do it," she said.

"Thank you."

Then Sten walked away to where his armor and other equipment waited. As he did, Solona pressed a hand to her chest and exhaled in relief.

Leliana struggled not to laugh. "Oh, Solona," she said, "didn't you say that men and women sometimes bathed together in the Circle?"

"_Mages_ did," Solona whispered. "There aren't any mages who are built like _that_."

Then Morrigan caught sight of Alistair and chuckled. "I believe you have another client to attend to, Solona."

Leliana tittered as the mage in question turned to him and promptly snapped her gaze to his chest. Which then slid down, _down_, and- Oh.

Well, it looked like he wasn't the only distracted one today.

Feeling both a little self-conscious and pleased, Alistair cleared his throat and watched in amusement as she managed to drag her eyes back up to his. He took a step forward and offered his clothes to her.

She took a quick step back.

Leliana grasped her by the shoulders and pushed her towards him. "Come now! You wouldn't want to disappoint our sweet Alistair, would you?"

Solona's expression resembled that of a cornered mouse. "I, um…"

"Go on! You said so yourself earlier that there's no need to be shy."

The mage scowled at the lay sister but at last raised her arms. Alistair proceeded to take his time placing his clothing, laying each shirt, tunic, and pair of pants as well as his socks and undergarments across her outstretched limbs with care. Not so much because he was actually worried that she would damage any of them but because he was actually making her _blush_.

And, oh, it was such delicious payback for what she had put him through in Lothering. As nice as it was mending their friendship, a little bit of revenge still went a long way in mending his confidence. He justified that it was only fair. After all, if she could tease, well then so could _he_.

Once he finally finished giving her his clothes, she turned her attention to drying them the same way as she had done with Sten's. Now that he was closer, he could feel the heat of the spell she used tingle along his bare arms and chest. He briefly wondered how amazing it would feel to wrap himself in that blanket of warm air on a cold winter day. Maker knew how many such nights he had spent in the abbey with just a threadbare sheet to protect himself from the chill.

"So," he said, "is this another one of your magicky tricks? Like the thing you did with the shield?"

Morrigan shot him a dirty look, to which he responded by shifting ever so slightly to put Solona between him and her.

Solona seemed not to notice as she focused on drying the clothes. "Well, yes, I suppose," she replied, her voice steadier than before. "It's something I developed over time from laundry duty."

At that, Alistair couldn't help but snicker. "Laundry duty? _You_ had laundry duty?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "What? There were chores to do and a keep to maintain, and none of the templars were exactly keen on helping out. You didn't seriously think I spent all of my time with my nose in a book, did you?"

_Yes_, he wanted to answer, but the look she was giving him made him reconsider actually saying so. "I don't know." He waved a hand in the air. "I guess I just imagined you doing more… magic stuff. Like casting spells. Performing rituals. Turning people into toads. You know, that sort of thing."

A small smile tugged at her lips. "No, I didn't do 'magic stuff' all the time. Sorry to disappoint."

Leliana fingered the edge of a dried shirt after Solona dismissed the spell for it. "And so this 'trick' of yours," the sister said. "Has it always been so efficient?"

"No, it took some practice," Solona answered. "At first I only succeeded in setting the laundry on fire."

Suddenly, Alistair didn't feel quite as secure about giving his clothes to her.

But then she dried the last garment – a sock with more hole than actual sock to it – and handed it back to him, and now he only had to put all of his things away in some conceivable order. He watched as she headed over to Bodahn and Sandal, whom he just then noticed had returned at some point, to help them with their clothing. Well, it was more that she helped Bodahn with their clothing, as the younger dwarf excitedly lugged a full bucket of water and a brush over to the horse and began washing the animal with enthusiasm.

And, speaking of animals, that was when Alistair realized he had no idea where the dog had gone off to. He looked about in all directions and, after stuffing his things away, even tromped back down to the river's edge, but he could find neither hide nor hair of the beast.

By the time he returned to the clearing, Sten was tossing the final pack into the cart and Bodahn was harnessing the horse again. Alistair's heart sank a little at the thought of being on the road again so soon; he still felt rather sleepy and oh-so-relaxed from the bath. Regardless, he strode over to where everyone had gathered, intent on informing Solona of the missing mabari.

At that exact moment, the hound came barreling out of the tree line, soaking wet and dripping enough water to fill a well.

The dog immediately bounded over to the horrified group.

Morrigan screeched, "No! Do not even _think_ of it, you-!"

But it was already too late. The hound shook himself off all over them, their supplies, and their once-clean clothes. After he had finished, his tongue lolled out and he happily shook his stubby tail. Whereas before they had reeked of sweat, blood, and grime, now they all smelled simply of wet dog.

Solona sighed. "All right. Everyone to the river to bathe. Again."


	7. Fade Fundamentals

Author's Notes: Here's another chapter! Once again, only minor edits to previous chapters. If you ever see anything I did wrong or could improve on, feel free to let me know. I'm always open to constructive criticism, and I'd love to find ways to get better at writing.

bergamot29 - Thank you for the review! I'm glad you're enjoying the story.

Sphinxes - It's great to know you find the story so funny. Thank you for the review!

Snarkoleptic - Wow, thank you for yet another wonderful review! I'm so happy to hear you're enjoying the story so much. It's good to know that I'm still on track for humor.

Everyone else, thank you for reading!

Chapter 7: Fade Fundamentals

There was something really wonderful about Goldanna that he just couldn't quite put his finger on.

Maybe it was how she made mince pies and beef stews, fresh from the oven and flavor bursting on his tongue, although he couldn't recall right then when she had last done so. Perhaps it was how she took such good care of him, tucking him in and saying goodnight every time he went to bed, though he couldn't really remember when that had last happened either. Maybe it had something to do with all of her children, those adorable little kids he just loved playing with (because who else could truly appreciate the finer points of figurines?). Then again, he couldn't quite bring to mind any time he had done either of those. He didn't even know what the weather was like outside, or her oldest child's name, or…

_No_, he thought. None of that mattered. What mattered was that she gave him the sense of family he'd never really had, this closeness and feeling so wanted that made him long to stay here with her forever.

And she had promised that she would get him thirty different types of cheese at the market tomorrow. _Thirty_ different types. He could hardly believe there were that many types of cheese in the world!

He was a lucky man indeed to have such a wonderful sister. In fact, _everything_ was just wonderful. All that had concerned him before – the Blight, the civil war, the darkspawn – seemed so far away here. In fact, he couldn't remember why they'd concerned him in the first place. Had he read about them in a book somewhere or heard something on the street? He could recall being recruited into the Grey Wardens at some point, but the joy he thought he had felt with them was nothing in comparison to this.

But then he did think of something, or rather some_one_, who could make this even better. Solona. He could remember her faintly, dark eyes and dark hair with a shy, teasing little smile. It somehow felt _wrong_ that she wasn't here with him, enjoying all of this. Was she an old friend then? Or… perhaps more?

And, just like that, he saw her coming down the dirt path – and since when had there been a path in the middle of their house? – towards him. She looked uncertain, though he couldn't imagine why.

"Hey! It's great to see you again," Alistair said, and he felt so utterly happy right then he nearly leapt up and hugged her. "I was just thinking about you. Isn't that a marvelous coincidence?"

But she didn't say anything. She was twisting her fingers and looking everywhere except at him, and for a moment the gesture felt so real and familiar, eclipsing everything around them, that it made his mind spin. But then the moment had gone, and it was just him, his sister Goldanna, and Solona standing in a house with the children again.

Maybe Solona was simply nervous about meeting new people, something that could easily be overcome once she saw how _wonderful_ they all were. "This is my sister, Goldanna," he continued. "These are her children, and there's more about somewhere. We're one big happy family, at long last!"

Then she finally did speak, so softly he almost didn't catch it: "You seem very… content."

"I am! I'm happier than I've been my entire life," he gladly confessed. "Isn't that strange? I thought being a Grey Warden would make me happy but it didn't. This does."

"I'm overjoyed to have my little brother back," Goldanna said with a wide smile. "I'll never let him out of my sight again!"

"Er, Alistair, can I speak with you for a moment?" Solona asked. "In private?"

For some reason, the word "private" brought to Alistair's mind the image of the mage in nothing more than a shift, and his mouth went dry and his tongue twisted into knots. "P-Private?" he replied. "As in, you and me – together? _Alone?_"

He hated how his voice went high and squeaky at the end, but the round-eyed look she gave him seemed to say she understood. "Oh! I didn't mean- Not like _that_," she said, blushing. "I meant-"

But then Goldanna stepped forward and asked, "Well, Alistair, is your friend staying for supper?"

At the mention of food, all memory of the previous topic disappeared from his mind. "Say you'll stay!" he begged Solona. "Goldanna is a great cook. Maybe she'll make her mince pie." He turned to his sister. "You can, can't you?"

"Of course, dear brother," she blithely replied. "Anything for you."

But Solona still looked uncertain. Maker, how much would it take to convince her already that everything was just _wonderful_?

"It's really, really good," he said. "Best mince pie you've ever had, I promise!"

She shook her head. "No, Alistair, that's not it. This is-"

Goldanna butted in again: "Why don't the two of you come and have some tea?"

Solona gave a pained sigh. "No. We need to-"

"Yes, that would be great!" Alistair interrupted, and he proceeded to very nearly drag the reluctant mage over to the dining room table. "Trust me, Solona, this'll help you relax. She makes the best tea, too!"

Come to think of it, didn't she make the best _everything_?

"Alistair, this isn't-"

"Would you like a dollop of honey in your cup?" Goldanna asked.

Alistair replied, "Yes, please!"

Solona started again, "No, I-"

"She wants one, too," he added.

"_Alistair_-"

But then Goldanna was setting two steaming cups onto the table and he couldn't be bothered to listen anymore with such _wonderful_ tea in front of him and ready to drink. He took up the drink and swallowed it down without hesitation, even as a small part of him cringed in expectation of being scalded. But no pain came. It was just pleasantly hot, like the mild heat of a windy summer day, and though he couldn't make out any particular flavor, it flowed deliciously sweet down his throat all the same. Then it was gone and the cup empty, and he was about to ask for more when she slid a cake onto the table.

"Happy name-day, dear brother!"

"It's my name-day?" he cried. "Oh, you're the best sister in Ferelden!"

"You're the best brother in all of Thedas," she countered.

"Well, you're the best sister in the _world_."

"You're the best brother in the universe."

"You're the best sister in… in…" He cast a pleading look at Solona. "Quick! What's something bigger than the universe?"

"I'm not participating in this," the mage muttered.

"Oh, come _on_," he said. "Don't you feel the same way about your siblings?"

She shrugged, tugging a lock of hair behind her ear. A little harshly, he thought. Had he asked a bad question? "I wouldn't know," she finally answered. "I've lived my entire life in the Tower, as far as I remember. You usually lose any family you had once you become a mage."

Oh. _Right_.

Then an idea struck Alistair, and he glanced at where Goldanna and the children stood with a growing smile. Now that he had a real family, he had one he could share. And, since the two of them were Grey Wardens, that technically meant they were _all_ family, right?

The mere thought of it was so _wonderful_ it made him giddy.

"Well, you're not in the Tower _now_, are you?" he asked.

"Yes, we are."

"So- Wait, what?"

"Don't you remember anything?" she demanded.

He looked at her as though she had just said that Morrigan was actually _nice_, which she might as well have declared for all the sense she was making.

Then he wondered: Who _was_ Morrigan in the first place? Because he was pretty certain he had never met anyone by that name. Or had he? He couldn't quite remember. In this case, he felt that he didn't really _want_ to remember.

Looking at Solona's concerned expression, though, he decided it might be worth it to at least try.

He closed his eyes and focused. At first, all he could recall was Goldanna and her children in their cozy little house, as if he had always been with them and there had never been another life. But some part of his mind protested the thought, saying it wasn't true because he was a Grey Warden, Solona was behaving strangely (well, more strangely than usual), and-

Several wrapped boxes suddenly dropped onto the table in front of him with a loud thud, and his concentration shattered. "I've brought gifts for you, dear brother!" Goldanna sang.

"Oh, wow, presents!" he gasped and picked one up. "You're the best sister in Ferelden!"

"You're the best brother in all of Thedas," she replied.

"Well, you're the best sister in-"

Solona put her head in her hands and groaned.

Alistair looked down at the irritated mage and, after a moment, put a reassuring hand on her arm. "What's wrong, Solona? This is supposed to be a happy occasion."

"It would be," she muttered, "if it were real."

"What do you mean?"

"We're in the Fade, Alistair," she ground out. "We were fighting and got trapped here by a demon."

He paused and gave the room around them a long, searching look. It couldn't be, he thought. The walls were as they'd always been – dry, simply-hewn boards of pine – and the floor and rafters were the same. The furniture, though sparse and plain, was neatly arranged and clean.

Under his scrutiny, it all seemed to _shift_, disappearing to reveal… He blinked, and the house was as it had always been.

"I… I don't believe you," he said, though not entirely certain. "This _can't_ be-"

"_Think_, Alistair," she said. "How did you get here? When did you arrive? What did you even eat for breakfast this morning?"

He tried to remember but the memories slipped through his fingers like silt from a riverbed. Words tumbled through his mind – Grey Wardens, darkspawn, Loghain, toast – but they carried no sense that he could tell. He frowned and replied, "Well, I don't see how any of that relates. I mean, I think I would know if I had just come from a battle and-"

She jabbed a finger at his chest. "You're still wearing your armor."

He glanced down. "Well, would you look at that; I am."

"It's got blood on it!"

He looked closer. "So it does."

And he recalled he had _just_ polished it, too.

Goldanna stomped over to Solona and crossed her arms. "Are you harassing my little brother, mage?"

"No, no," Alistair soothed. "We're just talking."

Solona glared at Goldanna. "I demand you release him this instant, demon."

"What _are_ you talking about?" he cried. "She's my _sister_, Solona!"

Goldanna grabbed a chair and threw it down on the mage, who barely dodged out of the way and around the table in time. She tried again, nearly hitting Alistair in the process.

Well now, that didn't seem very sisterly.

"H-Hey! Stop it, both of you!" he shouted.

Solona slid to a halt at the other end of the room and began summoning a spell, a fierce, red light blooming from her hands. "Sit tight, Alistair; I'll get you out of here!"

"No, he is ours!" Goldanna roared in an altogether unfamiliar, unfriendly, _unfeminine_ voice. "I'd rather see him dead than free!"

Nope, not sisterly in the least.

The next moment, Goldanna transformed into a monster, as did all of the children. With a guttural roar, they stalked towards the lone mage.

Not quite knowing what else to do, Alistair picked up and threw the cake at them.

While they stood stunned and covered in frosting, he pulled out the sword and shield he hadn't known until just then were still with him. Then he charged forth, joining the fray as his memory rushed back, that and Solona's relieved smile reassuring him that this was a dream, that this wasn't his sister, that it was all wrong, wrong, _wrong_, as much as he'd wanted it to be _right_ but a few minutes ago.

But then he and Solona standing together against the demons felt right in its own, strange sort of way, and his sorrow lessened. Instead, he focused on the fight, on the sword and shield in his hands, how the demons growled and shrieked as they were struck down. Before long, the battle ended, and the two looked down on nothing more than inhuman corpses and scattered remains.

He turned to her, his hands still shaking. His templar training had _tried_ to prepare him for this, he knew, but nothing _really_ could. He managed out a few stuttered, shocked sentences – an apology, and a hasty promise from her not to tell everyone how easily fooled he was. He meant to say more, perhaps more than he should ever say, but then the world disappeared from around him, including her, leaving him alone again. Alone. _Alone_.

But then the memory of Solona returned to him – she had come for him, hadn't forgotten, hadn't given up on him – and he pushed the despair away. As he did, an echo of dark laughter erupted all around him, leaving his hair standing on end even as it faded away. But he didn't let it deter him. He persevered, striding forth onto a path he could neither see nor feel yet was there all the same. His surroundings were indistinct and clouded, dreams bleeding into one another until they ran together like muddy water, but his mind was clear, sharp with the memory of Solona, her face, her voice, leading him on closer and closer. Wherever he found her next, he was sure it would be with the source of the nightmare.

Then, finally, he did find her, stumbling into a fight with the Sloth demon alongside everyone else. And then it was all a matter of hacking and slashing and the sensation of healing magic sliding along his body, closing wounds he knew weren't really there.

When they at last all regained consciousness – him, Solona, Sten, and Wynne – it felt like a small eternity had passed on the cold, stone floors of the Tower. Alistair's back ached, his head hurt, and even his teeth grumbled a little at it all. The bloody sight of Sten driving his sword through the demon's head a final time – how many forms did that thing _have_? – lingered in his mind, and he knew he would have a rough time sleeping that night. That is, if there wasn't anything even worse still lying ahead. Then he might just not sleep at all.

As they brushed themselves off and collected their things, Alistair took a moment to pull Solona aside. "Remind me," he whispered to her, "if I ever decide to go on a trip to the Fade, to bring _you_ along."


	8. Room, Board, and Brothel

Author's Notes: Yet again, just some minor edits to previous chapters in addition to a new one. Sorry if updates are not quite as frequent from here on out, though; I've begun to play Skyrim, and so I may not have as much time to write as I once did. I do plan to continue with this story and still have more ideas to use, however, so no worries on that account.

Snarkoleptic - Good to see you're still enjoying the story! And, yes, I thought it was rather strange myself how some of the supposed "mini-bosses" were actually harder than the real bosses in that game. Oh well. Thanks for the review!

Agent 94 - Glad I could! It's great to know you're enjoying the story.

Rose Tinted Contact Lenses - Thank you for another kind review! Yes, I'm trying to keep clear of angst for the most part; good to know I'm succeeding.

Everyone else, thanks for following along. I hope you enjoy another (long) chapter!

Chapter 8: Room, Board, and Brothel

Being out of the Circle Tower at last was like the first warm caress of spring after a long, hard winter. Alistair had wanted to get down on his hands and knees and kiss the dirt for just being under his feet again, but he knew doing so would get him some odd looks. So he did it out of sight of everyone and made sure to thoroughly clean his lips off afterwards.

Just thinking that Solona had actually lived there not even two months ago sent a shiver down his spine. It was like being in the chantry all over again, surrounded by books and boredom on all sides. Well, once the whole mess with the demons, abominations, and blood mages had died down a bit, it was. Except he had been able to go outside – and indeed often did to escape a bothersome chore or a lecture from the Revered Mother – whereas Solona had not. And who knew what other horrors lay within? He was reasonably sure the templars didn't manage to keep so many mages in line with cookies and tummy rubs.

Two decades spent caged within the same stone walls. Alistair felt himself go a little stir-crazy at the mere thought of it. It was no wonder that mages were eccentric, if they spent all their time cooped up in such places.

And, from what he had seen, the templars might have been cooped up a bit too long in there as well. There was no room for hobbies, a family, or a life of their own in that place. To think he could have wound up in the same situation – standing in the same spot for hours, wearing the same heavy suit of armor, watching the same mages day in and day out, counting the same stones in the opposite wall to keep himself from doing something silly like challenging the Knight-Commander to a game of chess or dancing the Remigold with one of the mages. Then the group had stumbled upon the templar Cullen and the most ill-timed confession of love in the world, and here Alistair had thought _he_ was awkward.

Of course, going to the Circle Tower hadn't been without its good points. They had saved First Enchanter Irving from the Pride abomination and managed to secure aid for the Blight. They had, once things had been cleaned up a little, picked out beds to sleep on, and, though the Tower was drafty, the heavy covers and the soft mattresses more than made up for it. Then there had been a real meal of roast pork, fruit, and cheese, all fresh and unlike the salted meats and dry bread they had to settle for while traveling.

In spite of those rare comforts, though, Solona had looked more morose than he could ever remember seeing her, even after Ostagar. Not that he could blame her. Her return to the Tower undoubtedly hadn't been the homecoming she'd expected, and while many mages had lived, the devastation had still been shocking. It would take weeks to clean up the ghoulish remains, and then maybe months to return everything back to some semblance of what it had been. If such a thing were even possible.

He tried to track her down after supper to talk – or see if she even wanted to talk – but she eluded him. Until the next morning, that was, when she woke him with a shake to his shoulder and cheery smile, same as always.

Though he couldn't help but notice her expression seemed rather strained.

Still, Alistair was glad to get out and on the road again, as there was just _something_ about sleeping in a place that had been infested with demons not even a day ago that put him on edge.

They had also picked up a different healer than the kind, charming, _handsome_ mage Solona had mentioned earlier (something about his having escaped yet again). Wynne, he remembered, was her name, a gentle, motherly-sort of mage. And, to just make everything that little bit better, she behaved like a genuinely normal person, or at least so far she did. She politely bartered with passing merchants for fair prices rather than scare them; she knew what qualities made a person "shady" and that she shouldn't talk to such people; and she quietly said "good morning" instead of shouting about a glorious sunrise, even if it was pretty neat-looking.

Maker, he had sunk to a new level of desperation to feel glad for an ordinary "good morning" from someone.

This piece of fortune, however, was quickly counteracted by the person Solona picked up only a week later: an Antivan Crow assassin by the name of Zevran Arainai. And of course it wasn't enough to take him up on such shaky grounds as showing the mercy Loghain lacked or any potential information he might offer regarding further Crow plots. No, the elf had made the quip about sleeping with her and fending off unwanted suitors, and she had actually giggled and said, "Bed-warming might be nice."

Alistair reminded himself to talk to Solona soon about who they could and could _not_ recruit. Very soon. It was one thing to take on big, glowering men, because all they did was look threatening and glare at everyone. But an assassin? Was she _trying_ to get them all killed, or was she just that phenomenally naïve? By the Maker, at this rate, she would probably try to enlist the next ogre they encountered.

Of course, he wasn't exactly one to talk, what with the whole no-I-don't-want-to-lead-_no-please-don't-make-me-lead_ thing. He was pretty sure he would much rather set his pants on fire while wearing them than try taking her place on such matters.

But, of course, as if fate were laughing at him in particular, the very next day Solona pulled him aside and asked, "Alistair, would you mind taking charge for a while? Sten and I need to return to Lake Calenhad to look for something. We'll be gone for only a few days."

His mind shut down and began to panic before she even finished her question. "What?" he nearly shouted, and Solona tried to shush him. But he wasn't having any of that, oh no. She was _not_ going to go off with a large, scary qunari all on her own, never to be seen again, and leave him the last Grey Warden in all of Ferelden. "What about getting to Arl Eamon? _You_ said there was a town with a boat we could hire just a day's more march north. _You're_ the one guiding us!"

She scratched her head in thought. "It might actually be two more days' worth of walking, I'm not sure." She gave Wynne, who was busy conversing with Leliana, a nervous glance before whispering, "My, er, source of information wasn't really clear on how long it took by road. He mainly stuck to the forests and such."

Oh, great. Now they were relying on advice from _apostates_. He knew he should have just swallowed his pride and asked the last trader they saw for directions.

"Anyway," she continued, "there should be a place you can rest at without worry of Loghain's men, too. He said they were very discreet and didn't ask questions. I think it was called the Lady's Blessing, or something of that nature." She gave him a reassuring smile. "If you'd like, you could wait there for us and take some time to resupply."

But he still fervently shook his head. "No, no. You _can't_ leave me with these people!"

"What's wrong with them?"

"_What's wrong with them?_" he said. "Where do I _begin_? That, for some unexplained reason, we have an obviously evil witch following us like a vulture waiting for its prey to die? Or that the sister believes she received a personal message from the Maker to join us? Or, _maybe_, it wasn't such a great idea to let a self-avowed assassin tag along? Or that the mabari keeps looking at my legs like they're cooked hams?"

She shrugged. "I could take Captain Cuddles with us, if he bothers you so much."

"That's not helping!" he cried. "And don't ask me about the dwarves; Bodahn only ever seems to talk about his merchandise, and you know how Sandal is."

"Well, what about Wynne?" she asked.

He crossed his arms. "What about her?"

Solona smiled. "You didn't include her in your list."

He frowned as he recalled his words. "No… No, I didn't. She's actually quite nice."

"Well then, just stick with her and ask her for advice whenever you're uncertain." With a sly grin, she added, "I also noticed that Morrigan avoids her like the plague."

Alistair mulled this over for a while before at last nodding with a sigh. "Fine. A few days, you said?"

"Should be," she replied. "We'll be traveling light and taking shortcuts where we can."

To this, he reluctantly agreed, and he watched with a heavy heart as she took off with Sten and the dog back the way they had come.

_It's just a few days_, he told himself. _She'll be back before you know it! Why, you can hardly keep her out of your hair for five minutes most of the time; it'll seem like a break. Yes, like a well-deserved break._

But he didn't want a break. He just wanted her _back_. Since meeting her, the sense of loneliness that'd haunted him since childhood had been gradually easing, as though it were a thick, cold fog lifting up and he could feel the sunlight on his fingertips and face for the first time in ages. She was like a slice of that illusion in the Fade with Goldanna, except, unlike the dream, she was _real_.

He hated the thought of losing that, no matter how small (and perhaps one-sided) the feeling was.

"Come, Alistair," Wynne soothed, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "Let's continue on our way, for Solona's sake, hm?"

"Yes, I suppose we should," he said, and, turning around, they did.

The journey to the town – Norfield, if he remembered Solona's directions correctly – took them one and a half days to complete. And it was perhaps the longest one and a half days of his life. True, staying near Wynne kept Morrigan and her cutting remarks away well enough. But it did nothing to lessen Leliana's chattering, and neither did it ward off Zevran in the least. By the time they finally reached the place, he didn't know if his ears were going to fall off from Leliana's endless talking or burst into flame from Zevran's ceaseless flirtations. One look at Wynne told him she hadn't fared much better.

And so, when the town at last came into view as they rounded a hill, Alistair felt more than a little relieved. He also felt rather confused, because Norfield wasn't so much a town as it was a small city. He had expected perhaps a couple dozen houses, an inn or two, and a chantry, but instead the sight that met his eyes consisted of street after street of stalls, stores, taverns, alehouses, and other manner of buildings all packed so tightly together that he couldn't tell where one ended and another began.

Then, as they got closer and could distinguish the ruckus coming from within, he understood why.

"Furs! Furs! Rabbits, foxes, and more! Go on, take a look!"

"An ell of linen for two bits! An ell of silk for ten! All colors, all sizes!"

"Iron! Steel! Tin! You need metal, I got it!"

"Apples! Apples! Come get your fresh red apples! We've got pears, too!"

"Meat pies! Fruit pies! Cheese pies! Get one for the road!"

It was a market town, and all of the merchants were doing their utmost to sell every scrap of wares they had left before packing up and fleeing the country. They occupied every inch of space in the stands, and where no room was available they flooded the streets hawking their goods. Some had even set up shop on the outskirts of town near the roads, and those ones very nearly attacked Alistair and his companions with their merchandise as they passed.

Then, as if the raucous shouting and jostling crowd weren't enough, Alistair couldn't seem to find this "Lady's Blessing" inn Solona had told him about. No matter how many people he pulled from the current of the throng, he only received blushes, loud guffaws, or increasingly vague and uncomfortable answers:

"Oh my, no, you don't want to go _there_. Or, maybe you do. It's really none of my business, I suppose."

"By the Maker, boy, you are either insatiable or stupid. You got a lovely young woman right next to you, and that's still not enough?"

"Oh, you looking for _that_ place? No, no, can't help you there. Got a wife like a leash of spikes, if you get my meaning."

"An 'inn,' you say? Oh, _yes_, lots of lads get their 'room and board' there. Popular place, you know! Heh."

After more than an hour spent questioning passersby in this manner, Alistair could only gather that, though everyone knew of the place, no one wanted to talk about it. With each reply, he felt more and more like he was being left out of a joke everyone else already knew the punch line to. And he was pretty sure it was one of those naughty tales that sent men sniggering and elbowing each other in the ribs and the Revered Mother into a long, furious speech on some sin or another.

He knew he shouldn't have let Solona go with Sten on that little side-trip, not when she was the one who actually knew where they were going. Why couldn't the qunari have taken Morrigan with him instead? Maker knew the witch cast enough lascivious looks at the giant to make a debaucher blush, and Alistair wouldn't have minded in the least if they both left and never returned. Then he would have only had to worry about a certain persistent elf. Perhaps he could have convinced Wynne to freeze the assassin in place and left him to thaw on the road while they ran.

Speaking of the assassin…

"Alistair, my friend, perhaps it is time to reconsider where we should stay for the night?" Zevran said. "As much as I admire your backside, I am feeling a little tired, and the light of the day is waning."

"First of all, we aren't friends," Alistair replied. "Second, most every place here already has bounty signs posted of Solona and me."

"Tsk. What is sleep without a little excitement?"

Alistair ignored him and continued, "Third, this 'Lady's Blessing' is where we planned to meet up, and I'm not going to take a chance and miss them." He paused. "And, fourth, stop looking at my _backside_."

"But it is a very nice backside," Zevran said. "In fact, if you would allow me, I could make some alterations to your armor to better show-"

"There's nothing wrong with my armor!"

"Then surely your clothing-"

"No!"

"Hm. A pity." Zevran hummed thoughtfully to himself for a moment. "Perhaps our dear leader would take me up on such an offer instead. Circle robes are not the most flattering to the figure, and they are practically criminal on hers."

Against his better judgment, Alistair found himself asking, "What… What do you mean?"

"You have not noticed? She has such divine legs. Long, slender, but shapely in all the right places… It is an act of cruelty to cover them so."

Alistair's ears began to burn again.

Then Leliana joined in: "Oh, so you saw, too! And did you notice how those robes bunch up around her hips as well? I've tried to talk her into wearing something more attractive, but she won't hear of it."

Zevran chuckled. "Well, it's good to know I'm not the only one here who can appreciate a fine form."

At that point, Alistair would have – _should_ have – demanded they stop talking about Solona in such a way, because she was their leader and that sort of discussion was wholly improper. But his breath was coming too fast, his chest was too tight, and he was too afraid he might say something stupid like, "Well, if you think her legs are nice, just try her _hands_," rather than a perfectly reasonable order.

Instead, he kept walking at the front of the group, feeling as though he were blushing down to his toes, and inwardly wondered what kinds of clothes would look nice on Solona. Because, personally, he thought a tailored cotehardie in blue would look very lovely indeed.

And why had he thought something like _that_ of all things?

No, no, forget it. He wasn't about to answer that sort of question. It'd just lead him to more, and the next thing he knew he'd be arguing with himself aloud and everyone would be giving him five feet of space like that one time in Denerim.

Wynne's patient voice snapped him out of his thoughts: "Circle robes are not made with fashion or _attractiveness_ in mind. They are infused with traces of magic to help the mage with his or her concentration and casting. That is likely why Solona refuses to relinquish them, if you must know."

"Ah, so it is a matter of practicality then?" Zevran replied. "I suppose I cannot really fault her for that. Though it is still a shame she-"

"Must you fools go on about clothes and such nonsense so?" Morrigan interrupted. "In case it escaped your _finely-tuned_ faculty of perception, we passed the inn."

Alistair's attention snapped to the witch. "What?! Where is it?" he demanded.

She pointed to a sign hanging over the street about one block back. It depicted a female figure in a form-fitting crimson gown praying on her knees. Below the picture, the name "The Lady's Blessing" was painted in black, bold letters. The building itself even looked quite well off, with bright red walls recently cleaned and steps thoroughly swept.

Alistair felt like he would faint with relief. "Oh, thank you! I thought we would never find it!"

"Do not tarry," she said. "Let us enter and hope they still have some beds left."

He gave a quick nod to Bodahn and Sandal. "Stay out here, and we'll see if they have a place to put the horse and cart."

"Will do," Bodahn replied and patted the horse's neck.

The moment they walked inside, however, Alistair wanted nothing more than to turn around and walk back out. As soon as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer lighting, he understood why it had been so hard to get a straight answer from anyone, as well as why the inn staff were tight-lipped about their customers.

A well-endowed woman in perhaps the lowest-cut dress he had ever seen stepped up to greet them. Beyond her, he could see _more_ barely-dressed women, as well as a few similarly-attired men. Then, beyond even them, he could make out a few others as they strutted in and out of what were presumably the backrooms with "clients" in tow.

Forget the Blight; he was going to die from embarrassment then and there.

"My, my," the woman tittered. "What a large group! We don't usually get so many at once. Well, come on in and let me know what you'd like. The name's Briana; I run this establishment. For the ones you see here, it's fifty silvers for everything above the waist and another fifty for everything below."

Zevran burst out laughing. "That… That minx! She sent us to a bordello!"

Morrigan, Wynne, and Leliana simply looked around in astonishment, unable to believe that Solona had directed them to such a place, much less even know that they existed.

"W-We didn't come for _that_," Alistair tried to explain. His face felt like it was going to catch aflame at any moment. "We were told to come here for r-rooms. Just, plain rooms."

Briana pursed her lips. "Oh, you sure? I was rather hoping I might get you for myself, big boy."

Now he wondered if he'd _ever_ stop blushing. "I-I'm quite sure, thank you. Solona, a friend of mine, told us-"

Briana's eyes lit up at the mention of the mage. "Oh! Solona Amell, you mean? I remember now; yes, _he_ had talked about her. Said she knew some small healing, um, _tricks_ for my girls."

Alistair was starting to really wonder just who this "he" was.

And what sorts of "tricks" was she talking about?

Actually, no, he didn't want to know that second part.

Despite his mortification, he managed to describe their situation to the proprietress well enough to have her nod in understanding and give them a few of the "private" rooms.

And by "private," she _really_ meant "private."

Each had two beds closely set together, hidden behind a sliding wall that was triggered by a switch under a floorboard. They were practically invisible on a casual inspection; a person quickly looking about the place would have no idea they were even there. Outside behind the building, they hid the cart under a tarp and several barrels of hay from the nearby stable that they put the horse.

While no one spoke the word "apostate" or "maleficar," the glances everyone cast one another said they all knew what the place was. Wynne in particular looked as though she had sucked on an entire lemon.

As fate would have it, though, it was exactly what they needed (and so yet another point for Solona), for the next night Alistair awoke to the sound of soldiers stomping through the streets and taverns and demanding if anyone had seen two Grey Wardens. He felt a chill creep along his back and arms as one searched the wall right next to him, hoping the man didn't knock and find out it was hollow. He could only pray that Solona had evaded capture as well, wherever she was.

The next two days, though uneventful, weighed heavily on Alistair with worry. For one, there was no sign of Solona, Sten, or the dog. Secondly, he discovered there were no boats for hire. Those that had gone to Redcliffe hadn't returned, and the rest either had already left for the other side of the lake or were in too much of a state of disrepair to go anywhere at all. Thirdly, Zevran looked increasingly like a child in a sweets store the longer they stayed, and it was starting to really disturb him.

Just as he was finishing his dinner at a table and about to turn in for the third day, however, three familiar figures entered the building. The qunari he recognized immediately, his immense stature and stern expression unchanged in the least. The hound bounded in right after Sten, barking and excitedly wagging his hindquarters. Then Solona entered, and Alistair's mouth dropped open.

What in Andraste's name was she _wearing_?

Bronze, yellow, and gold trim on a robe a few inches shorter than he thought was even _possible_, with fur shoulders and tight, silk black stockings all the way up to her _thighs_, and it took everything in his power not to choke on his food and pass out.

Zevran whistled, and Leliana clapped her hands. Solona looked down at herself in bewilderment at the reaction, and then she looked around in even greater bewilderment at where they were.

"What sort of place is this?" she asked. "And why are all the people-"

"Oh, Solona, that is a lovely change of clothing!" the lay sister interrupted. "Where did you get it?"

The mage glanced down again and plucked at a stocking. "Off a corpse."

Silence, and then Zevran nearly fell over laughing.

"What?" Solona said. "I washed it first!"


	9. Massages and Maneuvers

Author's Notes: Sorry for the rather late update! I had to rewrite this chapter a few times to get it a way I liked, and even then it took me a while. But, here it is finally! And, I hope no one minds if I shift some minor locations in the game around a bit; this just happened to be the closest order of events I followed when I played.

bergamot29 - You're certainly welcome, and thank you for the kind review! I'm glad to know I can brighten someone's day a bit.

Snarkoleptic - If you're thinking of a certain apostate whose name begins with "a" and ends with "s," then, yes, it might be. ;) Thanks for another review!

Evilblood - Good to hear you're enjoying the story. And, hah, you guessed it! I couldn't resist making a few cracks there.

Everyone else, thanks for reading!

Chapter 9: Massages and Maneuvers

Of course, Solona _would_ try to enlist an ogre, as Alistair found out not even a week later.

Well, it wasn't technically an ogre – it even had a name; _Shale_ – but it was as big as one and talked incessantly about how much it liked to crush things – birds especially – and how it had to count their breaths at night to keep from murdering them all in their sleep. Which was just really cozy, when one thought about it. Particularly when one thought of how any such attacks would be very much like getting a hug from a rockslide – a rather trying gesture, to say the least.

So, yes, now they were really just one big, happy family.

And, no, that wasn't sarcasm at all, certainly not!

And neither was that.

Maker's breath, did Alistair ever regret agreeing to continue north. He had wanted to go south to Redcliffe the moment they left the Circle Tower, truly he did. That seemed like the most logical course of action. Have a sick relative, take the shortest route to see him or her, nothing more to it. Right?

Admittedly, the shortest possible route would have been to go by boat and just cut across Lake Calenhad, and that's why they had gone north to Norfield at all. And then to Corden. And then to Honnleath, where they had picked up the aforementioned ogre-like golem. And then to Beledge, because they really didn't know when to quit already.

At that point, Solona took one look at the map they had bought along the way – though dated and written in Orlesian – and showed they were so close to the far end of the lake that any trek back would roughly equal the distance of simply going around.

There were, of course, considerations to take into account in this decision, considerations which Zevran was more than happy to bring up.

"Has anyone here actually visited the Frostback Mountains as of late?" the elf asked once. "I've heard it's rather cold, what with 'frost' being in the name and all. It would probably not be a good idea to get lost there. Though, if we were to find ourselves snowed in at a cabin and had to combine our body heat to survive, I wouldn't mind!"

They purchased several guidebooks and maps of the mountains at the next town they passed.

"And we will be stopping by Orzammar on the way, yes?" he added later. "The Orzammar with enough political backstabbing to make an Antivan merchant prince proud, not some other one? As much as I hate to be a killjoy in such matters, I do not much like the idea of taking advice from a dwarf who tells us to say he was eaten by a halla if anyone there asks about him." He paused in consideration. "On second thought, I have heard they employ some rather _creative_ torture techniques…"

They began picking up any information they could on the dwarven thaig, particularly its affairs and how _not_ to get embroiled in them.

"Hm. Is it just me, or is there a certain chill to the air, perhaps from the approaching autumn?" he remarked another time. "You know, I'd most appreciate it if only _someone_ would be so kind as to warm me up in my tent tonight. I'll even include a special Antivan massage!"

They bought cloaks and thicker blankets from the next trader they saw.

In all, Zevran was quite disappointed. Which was just as well, in Alistair's opinion, because the elf already threw himself enough at most everyone, particularly Solona. Not quite literally, no, but very, _very_ close, much closer than Alistair liked.

Just a few days ago, for instance, Solona had suggested they separate again. They had been resting for their midday meal at a turn in the road when she had brought up the idea to let Alistair go on with Wynne, Morrigan, and Zevran to Redcliffe while the rest went to Orzammar to request aid. Alistair, still reeling from the incident in Norfield (which he might never truly recover from, for all he knew), reacted rather poorly to the idea.

"No, no, _no_! I beg of you, don't!" he'd said, taking her by the shoulders. "No splitting up – not again, _please_."

"But you did so well last time," she said, her brow creased. "What was the problem?"

_What was the problem?_ Where did he _begin_? And did he really even _want_ to relive those three days of mortification in his mind? "Please, just – no. No splitting up," he said. "We stick together from here on out. Agreed?"

Then, before she could reply, Zevran had slipped in behind her, wrapping his arms around Alistair and her both. "Oh, I fully agree!" the elf said. "The more, the merrier, don't you think?"

"Zevran, let go! I can't breathe!" Solona gasped from between them, and Alistair tried very hard to ignore how she looked and felt pressed against him, her cheeks flushed and her chest heaving as she-

No, no, that was the _worst_ response to have at a moment like this!

Alistair quickly broke out of Zevran's hold, stumbling back as he furtively adjusted his breeches. Then he watched, his face aflame and his chest tight, as the assassin squeezed the mage in his arms and pressed a kiss to her cheek with a laugh before releasing her. Which in turn relieved him and confused him even more. On the one hand, she'd refused every one of the elf's advances so far, but, on the other, he'd _heard_ things about Circle mages, things that had made him blush to his ears and then want to stick his fingers in those ears for the rest of the day, and just because she refused one person didn't mean she'd refused _all_.

But that was neither here nor there, he'd reminded himself. It wasn't any of his business who she spent her time with or in what manner. He only didn't want her hurt or worse. Grey Wardens sticking together and all that, you know? Just a regular camaraderie.

Maker, he was terrible at lying, even to himself.

In the end, though, Solona did rescind her proposal. Which, he told himself, was really the most important thing. Otherwise, he was sure he would have had to go find the archdemon and convince it to eat him so he could escape the torments that undoubtedly awaited him.

Now he only had to deal with the torment of remembering Solona pushed against him.

At any rate, from there, their journey had continued on much as before. The same road, the same trees, the same meals, the same petty spats between the same people, and so on.

In the ensuing days, Alistair took up marching at the back of the group, telling himself it was to look out for anyone sneaking up on them, not because he liked watching the sway of Solona's hips (no, not _at all_, and _especially_ not in those new, criminally-revealing robes of hers).

Solona herself spent much of her time walking side-by-side with Leliana, speaking to one another in soft voices as the lay sister slowly stroked the mage's back (and Alistair tried very hard not to think on that too much either). Sten, Shale, and Morrigan were for the most part silent, content to keep their eyes upon the road or on their surroundings as they passed by. Bodahn and Sandal stayed with their cart, either sitting on top or walking on foot next to the horse to help guide it over a difficult stretch of road. Wynne alternated between doting on the mabari and striking up conversations with the various members of their group, though increasingly less so with Zevran. Zevran, for the most part, seemed to enjoy flirting with anything that stood on two legs and had a pulse.

But in spite of their travel preparations, they had forgotten to consider one particular fact: That constant marching, especially that which went uphill, wore a great deal on the body. As they had already marched for near two months since Ostagar, it wasn't much longer before their progress began to slow and then, at last, came to a head shortly after noon one day.

It was a pleasant enough day, in and of itself. The fierce heat of summer had begun to give way to the cool breezes of autumn, and the bare, cliffside paths offered them plenty of the latter. The road was easy enough to travel: a construction of large, hewn stones placed at a sloping angle for carts and worn smooth by time and heavy use. Around them, birds chirped and sang from their perches in the wind-twisted trees that clung to the steep mountainside, and ducks and geese cried high above as they migrated north. The weather was fair and clear, allowing them an unmatched sight of the Fereldan countryside below the further they climbed.

But, beyond "in and of itself," the day was undoubtedly and unequivocally _absolutely horrible_.

Alistair's feet ached, his legs ached, his back ached, his shoulders ached, his arms ached – most every part of him _ached_. If they weren't already trying to scream in nightmarish agony, like his shins. Every step sent shocks of pain rattling up his body, and he could only grit his teeth and use every last drop of willpower to silently bear it.

The problem wasn't so much that he wasn't fit enough to go on a long trek like this. He had trained and practiced for years as a templar recruit, and since being conscripted into the Grey Wardens he hadn't let up on his exercises.

No, the problem was the _walking_. He had never walked so much in such short time in his life, and doing it in armor as well certainly didn't help make it any more tolerable.

A quick glance around told him many of the others weren't faring so well either. Wynne, undoubtedly still suffering from the events at the Tower, looked a little wan and weak, shuffling where she had once easily strode. Leliana limped from time to time and rubbed at her own aching legs every so often, but she determinedly kept up with the group without complaint. Sten, though appearing largely unbothered, on the rare occasion scowled more so than usual and stiffly rolled his shoulders. Bodahn and Sandal took up riding in the cart as much as possible, regardless of how much it shook and clattered on the stones. Even Morrigan, who once prided herself on her cool endurance, increasingly kept to her beast forms for easier travel.

Zevran, at least, looked perfectly fine as he sashayed his way along the path. Or perhaps he was just always like that.

And that was to say nothing of the golem, horse, and hound, which looked at them all as though to say, "You're tired? _Already?_"

Solona, however, seemed as though she were about to collapse. When she wasn't nearly tripping over her own feet, she was bent over casting a healing spell on her legs for a quick moment before pushing herself into a jog to catch up. Every movement brought forth a wince from her, and Alistair nearly found himself wincing in sympathy.

He could only imagine how hard it must be on her, having never stepped foot outside the Tower in her life for a good hike before Duncan came along. He also certainly couldn't recall "exercise curriculum" being mentioned anywhere in his templar training on how to handle mages. He would have offered to carry her on his back – as much as it made him blush to think of having her legs wrapped around him in any way – if he weren't in so much discomfort himself.

At last, though, Leliana slowed her pace to walk alongside Solona and whispered something to her. The mage's brow creased a little as she listened, but, after some time, she nodded. Then the both of them came to a halt. Alistair, when he saw this, stopped as well, feeling relief bubble up inside of him as he did.

Solona squared her shoulders and shouted, "Everyone, hold up!"

One by one, all in the group slowed to a stop and then turned to face her. Wynne leaned on her staff as several others took the opportunity to rest against the cart or a tree.

"I know it's only the early afternoon and we need to reach Orzammar as soon as possible," she continued, "but we're in no condition as we are now to confront whatever complications we may encounter. Thus, I think it's in our best interests to set up camp at the next possible site and spend the rest of the day recuperating." She paused, trying to read the expressions of everyone around. "Are there any objections to this?"

She waited several long moments, but the only response she received was the wind whistling against the cliffs. Her mouth gaped open a little in surprise. Perhaps she had expected something from Sten or Wynne on not faltering from one's duty or even from himself on how yet again he wanted to reach Redcliffe, but only silent agreement answered her.

Alistair couldn't remember a time he'd been happier to hear nothing.

Finally, she recovered herself and said, "Well, all right then. Next place we see, we set up camp."

And they did. About half a mile further down the road, the hound ran out from the sparse woods and gave a happy bark. When they followed, they found a clearing large enough to comfortably fit their motley crew.

By the time they finished setting up their tents and gathering enough wood for a fire, Alistair felt so tired he could have collapsed into an exhausted sleep right then, save for his aching body making him too restless to do so. Instead, he settled for removing his armor and trying to make himself as comfortable as possible on a fallen, half-rotted tree across the small glade. Which was easier said than done, really, because "camp" and "comfort" were two words that had no business being in the same sentence together, unless it was to point out how very much opposite the former was of the latter.

After some time, Solona finished her own tent and came to sit across from him on a large rock. She rubbed at her legs and muttered under her breath as she cast healing magic and something else he couldn't quite identify, a soft red glow that crackled along her hands. Some sort of minor fire spell?

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She jerked her head up at the sudden question but then calmed upon seeing his inquisitive expression.

"Oh, this?" she answered. "It's mostly a healing spell, but with some warmth and electrical energy added in." She gave a shy smile as she glanced back down at her legs. "Maybe it's just me, but the extra bits seem to help with the aches and pains a little more."

So he had been partially right. He was getting better at this magic thing, it seemed! He watched as she turned back to her task, and a thought grew in his mind. He didn't know if she would oblige him, and, Maker, it embarrassed him enough to think of asking for such a thing, but his back and legs hurt so dreadfully he could hardly stand it.

When she finished, he weakly asked, "Would… Would you mind terribly doing that for me as well?"

She shook her head. "Of course not. Where would you like me to?"

_All over_, was his first thought, but he squashed it as a blush rushed to his cheeks. "Uh, mainly my back, shoulders, and lower legs."

She stood up and motioned him to scoot forward on the tree, and then she climbed up and sat behind him, her legs – which were as nice as Zevran had pointed out, he noted – stretching out around his hips and brushing his thighs. He fought not to notice that last detail too much.

Then he felt a strange combination of heat and cold that swept over one another in waves at his back, and the next moment her hands were pressing against him through the shirt he wore and humming with magic. She kneaded and pushed at the lingering aches and tense knots in his body, the spell in her hands pooling into him like a gentle salve. It was like feeling the lapping waves of the ocean upon a beach through him, all-encompassing and caressing one moment, then receding and drawing away the pain the next, then returning all warm and comforting again, and so on and so forth. It hushed his groaning joints and overworked muscles, turning him into water in her hands.

He could get used to this, he thought. She laughed at his jokes, started campfires, protected him from the rain, cured his pains…

Who'd ever said that mages were bad? As far as Alistair was concerned, the world could do with more! Well, so long as they were as nice as Solona and Wynne; it went without saying that ones like Morrigan could kindly go take a hike into a dragon's mouth, in his opinion.

"Let me know if I'm hurting you," Solona said.

"'S fine," he murmured. Then, before he quite knew what he was saying, he asked, "So did you ever do _it_ in the Tower?"

Oh, Maker, she was going to set a fireball on him, no doubt about it.

He felt her hands pause and then, miraculously, start up again. "Have I ever done… what exactly?" she said, and, yes, he was quite sure he could hear a grin in her voice. "Ever… played a citole? Lost a game of checkers? Put itching powder in the Knight-Commander's smallclothes?"

"You know," he replied. Every sensible part of his mind was telling him to shut up and apologize, but admittedly those parts were quite sleepy and not very loud at the moment. "I heard rumors about you Circle mages being _promiscuous_."

A soft chuckle met his ears. "Oh? And you believed them?"

Alistair started a little at that, wincing as he struggled for an answer that didn't make him sound as foolish as he felt right then.

Before he could, Solona stopped and got up from behind him, and he contemplated smacking his head against the log for his stupidity. _Please, don't go_, he wanted to beg. _I'm just an idiot who doesn't know what he's saying, so please ignore me and don't go._ But she only did so to kneel down in front of him and start work on his legs, and he quickly settled down again as she ran her healing fingers up his calves and her soothing palms across his shins.

"Well," she continued, and he suddenly remembered they had been talking about a rather sensitive subject, "let me ask you then: if you were raised in the chantry, have you never…?"

Oh, no, she wasn't about to turn the tables on _him_. "Never… Never what? Had a good pair of shoes?"

"You know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do," he replied, grinning a little as his confidence returned. "Have I never seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have I never licked a lamppost in winter?"

She pouted. "Now you're making fun of me."

"Make fun of you, dear lady! Perish the thought." A particularly devious idea wormed its way into his head, and he had to fight to keep himself from outright smirking. "Well, tell me," he said, dragging out the syllables as if each were coated in honey, "have _you_ ever _licked_ a _lamppost_ in winter?"

That did it. Her cheeks blazed red, and her eyes darted around as though she wouldn't have to answer as long as she didn't look at him.

But the question hung in the air, and Alistair couldn't help the grin that grew on his face and the desire to give himself a good pat on the back. At last he was going to win a round of this game they played, and he would finally know more about her. He could almost taste her reply on the tip of his tongue, heady and sweet from victory and perhaps a little more that sent a flush to his own cheeks.

Then Zevran had to butt in and ruin it all.

"Why, I have licked many of these 'lampposts in winter' you speak of, my dear templar," the elf drawled as he suddenly leapt up and straddled the tree trunk a few feet away.

Alistair eyed his sword, which he had propped up next to him, and wondered if Solona would mind much if he brandished it at the assassin right then. But, in a rare show, his wits stirred to life, and he snidely quipped, "And you didn't lose half of your tongue in the process? I'm impressed."

"Oh-ho! It is not quite so bad as you think it, my friend, if you do it _properly_," Zevran replied with a gleam in his eyes. "You need only cup your hands around the _pole_, near your mouth, breathe a little to help warm it up, and give it a few _loving strokes_, and you shall have no problems 'licking lampposts,' I assure you."

And that did it for both of them. Solona coughed and covered her face with her hands to hide the fierce blush that arose – a futile endeavor, as it traveled to her neck and ears as well – and Alistair went still with shock as his own face turned a matching shade. All the while, Zevran looked on, practically grinning from ear to ear.

At last, Alistair narrowed his eyes at the elf and asked, "Is there something you need?"

"If you must know," Zevran answered, "I had come to check on our beautiful leader, considering how much trouble she was having on the road. Is that so wrong?"

Alistair felt his anger cool a little as shame trickled in.

Then Zevran added, "After seeing her massage and your response to it, though, I was wondering if she might exchange tips with me and, perhaps, give a personal demonstration. My legs _do_ feel rather sore from all the walking…"

The irritation came flooding back in force. "You've only been with us several weeks," he snapped.

"Yes, but I had to travel all the way from Denerim before then."

"Then go ask Wynne!"

Zevran offhandedly shrugged. "I would, but I'm afraid she is still feeling touchy about her magical bosom and won't let me near her. I can't imagine why."

At that, Solona laughed, and Alistair could only groan.


	10. The Sickly and the Secretive

Author's Notes: Sorry for the rather late update again. For now, I think I'll try to get new chapters out on a weekly basis and see how that goes. I'm afraid I don't have a whole lot ready to go as is, so sometimes it takes me a while to come up with more.

Snarkoleptic - Who could resist adding Zevran to a conversation like that? It seems like it'd be just his forte. I'm glad you liked it! Thanks for another review. =D

Rose Tinted Contact Lenses - It's great to hear you're still enjoying the story! Thank you for the review.

Chapter 10: The Sickly and the Secretive

"So, what did you learn from this?"

Wynne's voice, though patient and kind, cut through the fog of Alistair's agony, making it all the sharper and more unbearable. He closed his eyes, struggling to keep the world from spinning and his stomach from heaving as he rested on his bedspread.

"Not to aim at one's boots when puking?" he replied.

She sighed and cast a hand of calming magic over him. "Really, Alistair, I thought you knew better than to do something like that."

"Puke on my boots, you mean?"

"No."

He scowled and covered his face with his hands. "I thought it was _fine_. Cold and crystal clear, fresh from the mountain. How could I have known?"

"Clarity does not indicate drinkability. In fact, it can mean the exact opposite." She turned back to the task of grinding several herbs together in a mortar, a soft, crunching noise that began to unsettle Alistair's stomach again. "Sometimes poisons leach into the water as it flows out from the rock. Soil, plants, or some other purifying agency is needed to reduce or remove these elements before we may drink it."

He peered up at her from around his fingers. "How do _you_ know?"

Her lips turned up a little into what he swore was a smirk, but that couldn't have been right because Wynne – the gentle, motherly healer – did _not_ smirk. "I am a Circle mage, Alistair," she answered. "As a Circle mage, studying such chemicals is expected and, indeed, encouraged. It helps a great deal to know what you are actually doing when making things like poultices."

He groaned and closed his eyes again. "Of course, you and all your magey knowledge."

Wynne chuckled. "Aside from all that, we also have no way of telling if a dead hurlock was lying just upstream. Could you imagine drinking anything that went through that?"

His gut churned at the thought. "_Not_ helping!" he grumbled.

She patted him on the arm. "Come now, at least the worst is over with."

Alistair opened his mouth, about to complain that she hadn't been the one to live it, that she hadn't been the one to nearly pass out on the road as the sickness ripped through, tearing out the contents of his stomach and leaving him a staggering mess. A mess that Leliana, Zevran, and Solona were cleaning up.

Oh, yes, there was nothing quite like impressing one's peers by making them scour one's filth-encrusted clothes and armor.

He shut his mouth, suddenly put off from the idea of conversing further. Instead, he contemplated turning over and going to sleep then, just to put the day behind him all the faster.

"Now, Alistair, you can't slip off just yet," Wynne chided. "You need to take your medicine first, which I believe-" The tent flap rustled a little as it slid along the ground before slipping closed again. "Ah, here we are. Thank you, Solona."

"How is he?" the young mage asked in but a bare whisper.

His stomach clenched at the sound of water gurgling into a cup. "Why don't you ask him yourself? He's still awake," Wynne said.

"Alistair, how are-"

"Terrible," he snapped.

"And irritable, apparently," Wynne added. "Solona, would you help him sit up?"

Oh, no, he did not need that bit of humiliation on top of everything else. He was a grown man, a former templar recruit, and a Grey Warden – he didn't need assistance to simply _get up_. "No, no! I've got it!" he said and quickly pushed himself upright.

And nearly went into a bout of retching all over again. Wynne swiftly cast a healing palm over him once more and he fell back against his bedroll with a groan.

This time, he didn't protest as Solona wound an arm behind his upper back and slowly lifted him up. Once he was steady, Wynne handed him a cup of some sort of dark, foul-smelling liquid. His gut twisted and turned like a restless snake, and he glanced around, wondering where he could aim in the small tent that wasn't on himself or the two mages next to him.

Seeing his black look, Wynne explained, "It's tea. I've infused it with some herbs that will settle your stomach and help you in recovering from your illness."

Regardless, Alistair considered not drinking it anyway. But then he recalled he _did_ have two mages next to him and, in his condition, he was really in no position to argue.

He muttered under his breath and then downed the cup's contents in one gulp.

And of course it was awful. There was practically a _rule_ that all medicine was awful. It rolled across his tongue like sludge and dripped down his throat like wax, and the taste was horrific. It was worse than when he had slipped on a street in Denerim after a rainstorm and gotten a face-full of mud. It was worse than the time an ogre's blow had sent him eating dirt. It was worse than _his own cooking_. Really, if he tried serving this up for dinner one evening, he'd never have chef duty again. He probably wouldn't even be allowed near a pot, just in case.

But his stomach did begin to settle a little as the medicine kicked in, though he wasn't sure if it were due to any genuine healing effect or simply the stuff beating his gut into submission.

Solona carefully lowered him back onto his bedspread. "How are you feeling now?" she asked.

"Slightly less terrible," he answered.

Solona gave a small smile, and Wynne chuckled again. "Well then, if you don't mind, I have some dishes to wash," the elder mage said. "Solona, would you mind keeping watch over him? I trust you won't do anything too devious."

The memory of their earlier, innuendo-laden conversation – which hadn't exactly been a well-kept secret once Zevran told everyone about it – sent a blush rushing to the cheeks of both Wardens. "O-Of course," Solona replied.

Wynne nodded and then, with a quiet swish of the tent flap, left.

Solona gazed down at Alistair and he gazed back, and the awkward silence between them stretched on for several long minutes. He tried to think of something, anything, to say to ease the discomfort, but everything he could think of only seemed liable to make it worse:

_So, do you come here often?_

_I never knew it would be so easy to get you into my tent._

_Has anyone ever told you that you have lovely eyes?_

_You know, I don't think I've ever vomited that much before in my life._

Fortunately for him, before he could accidentally spill out any of the above or something even more horrendous, Solona at last asked, "Are you going to go to sleep?"

"Not if you keep staring at me like that," he replied.

"Oh! Sorry," she said and turned so she no longer looked at him. Instead, she focused her attention on her boots, which she reached down and began to idly relace.

Which meant he could look at her quite freely.

And, no, it wasn't ogling, at least not really, so long as he didn't focus too much on her… _lady parts_. He just skimmed them a bit, that's all, he swore. Well, maybe a few times, to be completely honest, but that hardly counted anyways. With the scarce lighting that trickled in from the camp fireplace, it wasn't as though he could make out a whole lot to begin with.

Though her legs were still very nice, and her eyes – even from only a view of her profile – were really quite beautiful…

Eventually, he closed his eyes and tried to get some rest.

Which remained stubbornly elusive, as his mind instead mulled over recent events.

After recuperating that one afternoon, their march up the mountainside since then had grown no less long and hard. In fact, it had gotten worse. The slope of the road had steepened, turning from a gentle incline and into an unforgiving ascent. The chill in the air increased as they'd climbed the wide path, and their progress had slowed once they donned some of their heavy winter clothing. They had also left the elm and ash trees for evergreens some miles back, which meant less cover from the piercing sun. Then, of course, he had gotten horribly sick, and that had sapped him of any remaining strength he might have had.

He wondered if they might encounter snow before reaching Orzammar. If the warnings in the guidebooks were to be believed, he hoped not. He didn't like the idea of attempting to navigate one of the steep, curving passes in a blizzard. The idea of a steep, curving _anything_ didn't exactly do wonders for his stomach right then, but it was a valid concern he couldn't dismiss quite yet.

Then he thought of something: "Hey, Solona, you know a few ice spells, right?"

"A couple, yes," she said.

"So, do you have – I don't know – some sort of affinity with snow and such?"

She paused for a moment and then began to laugh. "Are you trying to tell me I'm an ice queen, Alistair?"

His eyes shot open and he hastily shook his head. "No! Absolutely not! If anyone here is an ice queen, it'd have to be Morrigan. That woman could give a _glacier_ a run for its money."

Maker, he felt like slapping himself. Couldn't he say anything right?

"Anyway," he continued, before he lost the nerve to say anything at all, "I wanted to know if you could, I don't know… foresee its coming or motion or something else, something we could use to our advantage? You know, in case of a snowstorm and the like."

She glanced over at him from her footwear. "You mean a meteorologist?"

He nearly slapped himself then, but, mindful of the fact that Solona would ask if he did, he instead covered his face with his hands again. "No! I- Well, I guess. Yes, I suppose. So, can you? Predict the weather, that is?"

She tapped her chin with an index finger for a few seconds as she thought it over. "Well, considering that today was clear with a little wind, I would think… more of the same tomorrow?"

He frowned at her. "No, I meant with your magic."

She shrugged. "If there is a spell for it, I don't know it."

"But I thought you could," he said, furrowing his brow in confusion. He'd seen her cast multiple spells since meeting her at Ostagar: fireballs that had fried enemies to a blackened crisp, ice that had frozen raging wolves and darkspawn alike in their tracks, healing magic that closed otherwise fatal wounds. A little spell to tell the weather seemed like child's play in comparison. "It can't be that hard, what with all of the other stuff you've done so far."

"The things I've done," she replied with a frown, "are things I learned in the Circle and altered to my own purposes. What use would a mage stuck in a Tower have for a spell to foretell when the next snowfall is?"

The statement hit him like a sudden rainstorm, dousing what little of a good mood he had felt returning. _Idiot, idiot, idiot_, he chastised himself. Of course she wouldn't know, not when she thought she'd be trapped in a veritable prison her whole life. "Oh, er, right," he lamely said. "Sorry."

Their conversation lapsed back into an uncomfortable quiet, and Alistair could hear the sharp tugs Solona made as she returned to her boot.

But a thought clung to Alistair's mind, pulling at his curiosity and making him chew his lower lip. He knew he should let the matter rest, that it was a sensitive topic, and not one he knew any way of smoothly working into a joke or a poor attempt at flirting. Besides which, Solona was still quite capable of setting him alight despite the tiring day and late hour.

Regardless of those very good reasons, his mind kept returning to the idea. He kept thinking of his childhood daydreams, of soaring as high as the clouds in the sky and of finally getting even with his tormentors. He also thought of all the times he had gotten a stomachache from eating too many cookies or a scraped knee from running down a hill too fast and falling. He even reflected on the fantastic stories he had found tucked away and forgotten in the back of the chantry library when he was a boy, as well as the silly superstitions he used to believe in (all right, _still_ believed in, but considerably less so than before).

It just seemed to him that magic could be so _useful_. He could hardly leave it alone at starting fires and doing laundry!

Before he could think better of it, he blurted out, "So, have you ever flown?"

Solona's quick tugging came to a stop as she turned to look at him again. "Flown?"

"With your magic," he added.

"No," she said with a small frown. "I've never managed it, and I don't know anyone who has."

"Not even a little hovering?"

She giggled a bit at that, her expression easing. "No."

"What if you got up on your magic shield-thing? Would that work?" he asked.

She shook her head. "It can't support that much weight."

He paused. "Then have you ever tied a person's shoelaces together with a spell? Or magicked the wrong answers onto someone's test paper?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Now why would you think I'd do something like that?"

He hefted himself up onto an elbow and narrowed his eyes at her in mock-suspicion. Inwardly, he was glad no parts of him churned or swam in turn from the motion. "Oh, I don't believe you're innocent at all," he said with a grin. "I think it's just an act so you can see how embarrassed you can make me and get away with it. I'm onto you!"

"Well, I never!" she said with a laugh.

He poked her in the side. "You sent us to a _brothel_."

"I didn't know at the time!"

"Oh, sure," he said, his tone low with doubt. "And I'm sure you've never turned someone into a toad either."

She cast a fake glare at him in return. "For shame! A mage would never stoop so low as a toad spell."

"Then how about a frog?"

She pondered it. "Hm, better, but not quite."

"A _newt_."

"Oh, yes, now _that_ I've done," she replied. "Several times, in fact."

A hint of concern flashed through him. "Really?"

"No, of course not!" she said with a smile. "I don't even _know_ any spells like that, Alistair."

"I noticed that you didn't say anything about Wynne or Morrigan. I'll be sure to keep clear of them," he said, his grin widening. "But surely you've done _something_ a little bad. Come on, tell me: what was it?"

A frown flickered across her face, and she ducked her head down and turned back to her lacing without an answer. Before long, she finished and began on the other boot.

But Alistair felt in too good of a mood now to stop at that. He absolutely had to know some little wicked detail about her. It was only fair, he rationalized. Here he was stumbling around like a fool despite being the senior Grey Warden, and Solona practically floated along in life despite having only a couple months' worth of real world experience. Well, so long as she didn't get into any situation that required social finesse. Or one that involved a chantry. Most of the folk there didn't seem to like mages much; he couldn't imagine why.

"Did you freeze the floor of the First Enchanter's bedroom?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"Did you _actually_ put itching powder in the Knight-Commander's smallclothes?"

She shook her head again, though a slight smile crossed her lips this time.

"Slipped a naughty picture into a prayer book?"

A chuckle. "No."

"Hid a templar's helmet in the mage's bathing quarters?"

"No."

He hesitated. "Zapped a templar?"

"No." She grinned, turning to him again. "But a senior enchanter once asked me to burn a hole in the trousers of one."

He winced. "Remind me never to get on your bad side; I don't have a lot of extra trousers."

She laughed at that, and he couldn't help but laugh a little, too. He could hardly believe he was having this much fun, not even an hour after being so ill. In fact, he didn't feel very queasy at all anymore.

But he _still_ didn't have an answer to his question. "Well, did you help a blood ma-"

"Dinner is prepared!" Leliana's voice sang out, right before she pushed open the tent flap and shuffled in.

Alistair's stomach growled at the mention of food, and he nearly spun about in his bedroll to face the lay sister in his eagerness.

Until he saw what she was carrying: the thinnest soup he had perhaps ever laid eyes on. He could see clear down to the bottom of the bowl with little difficulty, and he almost wondered if it was merely water with a few spices and a little food coloring thrown in.

Leliana handed it to him, and he accepted the bowl and spoon with a weak smile. She explained, "It's a dish I used to have a lot when I was sick as a child. It is very good for upset stomachs and the like."

He stirred the broth with the spoon and tried not to frown. Really, how did the Orlesians survive on so little food? He was shocked they had managed to conquer anyone, much less Ferelden, the land of hearty stews, on such empty stomachs.

Perhaps he wasn't as bad of a cook as he thought. At least he didn't starve people with the results.

"Thank you, Leliana," he finally said and then took a taste. And very nearly cringed at the bitter sourness that slammed into his tongue. "It's _delicious_," he managed out and forced a grin.

The lay sister beamed at him. "You're very welcome!" Then she turned to Solona and said, "Sten brought back a deer for dinner. Why don't you help him with that, and I'll keep an eye on Alistair for a bit?"

Oh, now that just wasn't fair. Here he had the weakest soup in Thedas to contend with, and they were all going to have fresh venison without him. Really, he chose the absolute perfect time to get sick.

Solona nodded. "Yes, I'll do that. Thank you, Leliana." She rose, moving to leave, but then stopped and turned at the exit. "Do you need anything else, Alistair?"

_A real meal_, he wanted to say, but Leliana's expectant look made him swallow the words and instead reply, "Nope, I'm perfectly fine. Go right ahead."

_And please, oh _please_, bring me back some actual food to eat._

Then the mage was gone, and he was alone with the lay sister, leaving him no other recourse but to sip the broth and not grimace too much at the taste.

To distract himself from the sourness, he thought of his conversation with Solona, particularly the end. Had she stiffened a little at his last, interrupted guess, or had he merely imagined it?

Alistair hoped the latter, but some niggling little part of his mind told him there was more to the mage than met the eye. The way she sometimes avoided his gaze when discussing things like darker magic or Duncan's arrival at the Tower, or when in towns she slipped off with Morrigan or Zevran and later their collection of money seemed to suddenly increase with no explanation. He didn't like the feeling; it all seemed a little ominous to him, really. As if the whole archdemon business wasn't ominous enough on its own.

"So, Alistair," Leliana said, snapping him out of his thoughts and nearly making him spill the soup all over himself (which wouldn't have been so bad, if it got rid of it all), "I've noticed that you get along well with our young Circle mage."

He awkwardly shifted on his bedroll. "She's easy to like," he said simply.

Her smile grew. "Oh? And what parts in particular do you like? I heard that you asked her if she had ever licked a certain 'lamppost' before…"

His eyes widened and he flushed, and the sister simply giggled. Really, were they ever going to leave them alone about that?

"It was just a question," he said. "There's no harm in that, right?"

Leliana twirled a lock of her red hair around a finger. "Oh, I suppose not." Then she smiled. "You do realize, don't you, that there wouldn't be any _actual_ lampposts in the Circle Tower?"

His blush deepened. _Well, so much for hiding behind innuendo_, he internally groaned.

"It's all right, Alistair," she said and patted him on the knee. Then she giggled again. "Solona was right, though; you are cute when you're embarrassed."

Alistair sighed in relief that she was only teasing him. Then, as he caught up with her second comment, he turned and gaped at her, his mouth wordlessly opening and closing several times in shock.

But, before he could ask her anything – or, rather, pry out what _else_ Solona had said to her about him – she patted him on the knee once more and said, "Well, it looks like you're faring much better now. I think I'll go see how the others are doing. Call if you need anything, all right?"

Then she swiftly got up and left.

Leaving him alone to his rather bewildered – all right, _very_ bewildered – thoughts.

_Cute._

Solona thought _he_ was cute. The notion of it sent a thrill right through him.

He sucked in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. _Calm down, Alistair. You're not fourteen years old anymore_, he chided himself. _So Solona thinks you're cute. I might've preferred "manly" or "handsome," but cute is very nice, too._

Then he frowned as he wondered who else Solona might've thought of as "cute." She seemed to take Zevran's flirtations in remarkable stride, and there'd been more than a few run-ins with highwaymen who couldn't quite decide if they were trying to rob them or get laid. She hadn't thought any of those men as… _cute_, too, had she?

_Cute._

Alistair scowled and downed the rest of the sour soup in one gulp – hardly noticing the taste this time – before setting it aside.

Just… _cute_.

He sighed and lay back down, feeling decidedly less elated than he had a few moments ago.

Perhaps it was nothing more than one of those "girl talk" things, he mused. Though, obviously not being a girl himself, he didn't really know all that well what girls talked about in private. He had always assumed it was stuff like what so-and-so had done the day before, or what color of dress was in season, or which man looked the most attractive, those sorts of things. "Assumed" being a key word. Solona had never shown much of an interest in such subjects herself. Rather, she seemed to prefer the everyday and practical: of soft pillows, good food, and the colors of leaves in the sunlight.

He did remember, though, how back at the Denerim chantry some of the younger sisters occasionally got together in the evening to chat. He'd hear their peals of laughter ringing down the hall for hours into the night. Back then he'd simply thought it annoying, but now he wondered what they'd talked about, what they'd found so funny.

Leliana and Solona weren't making fun of him, were they?

Perhaps it was nothing more than the lay sister trying to get a rise out of him. But, she didn't seem the type to get a laugh from messing with him like Zevran did. Then again, when he'd first seen her just standing about in the Lothering inn, she hadn't seemed like much of the crazy sort, until she opened her mouth and started talking.

Alistair sighed again and resolved not to think on it any further that day. It wouldn't do to get his hopes up on such a thing, not when there were much more charming men like Zevran around to whisk the mage off her feet at any moment.

Besides, there was still a Blight and civil war going on, and in a few more days they'd be in Orzammar asking for aid. There were bigger matters to think about than just his little, sorry mess of a love life.

_Yes, think about the Blight_, he told himself. _Think about what you'll say to the king of Orzammar, because, by the Maker, you're going to need every bit you've got._

And so he did, and the evening passed by surprisingly peacefully. Wynne, Solona, and Leliana popped in to check on him a few times, but, other than that, everyone mostly left him on his own. No teasing remarks or pointed questions from Zevran, even! All in all, the night was actually turning out rather pleasant.

His stomach growled.

Well, save for the lack of food.

Without the excuse of an assigned watch, Alistair didn't dare leave his tent in search of a real meal. He dreaded the thought of being cornered by someone's teasing after such a day. He was still so tired and weak, he thought he might just fall over and crumble into dust if he was any further mortified. As much as his stomach groused at the idea, he eventually resigned himself to skipping supper, shut his eyes, and tried to catch some much-needed sleep.

Then, in the middle of the night, he heard someone slip into his tent and set a plate of something absolutely delicious-smelling down next to him. When he groaned and sleepily blinked up at the person, he heard Solona's voice whisper, "A little supplement to your earlier soup."

The next moment, she was gone, leaving him alone with what he discovered to be warm bread and roasted venison, reheated just for him. As he happily tore into the meal, he thought he might not mind tolerating a few blood mage problems – or whatever else lurked in her past – just for her.

After all, how bad could they be?


	11. Of Con Games and Confidence

Author's Notes: Hi, everyone! Sorry for the late chapter! Life got rather busy with the holidays coming up and all, so I didn't have as much time to write. Hopefully I'll be better able to stick to a schedule once things have calmed down again.

Snarkoleptic - Thank you for another kind review! It's good to know I'm still sticking to the main idea I had for this story; sometimes I feel as though I'm getting a bit off-track.

Chapter 11: Of Con Games and Confidence

No matter how much Alistair inwardly groaned over the decisions made or griped about how no one really seemed to listen to him, he found there were also times he was grateful for those exact same reasons. Like, in Orzammar. _Especially_ in Orzammar.

If Orzammar were to have a slogan, it'd have to be, "Nothing is normal here." Or, rather, everything that was normal was so exacerbated and stretched out of proportion to be nearly unrecognizable.

Alistair knew of the icy politics between Fereldan nobles and the oftentimes heartless airs they put on – he'd have to be blind and deaf not to, really, after living with Isolde – but Orzammar seemed to take all that coldness and cruelty and magnify them beyond anything he could have imagined. Here, people wore their honor and loyalty like a trinket gloated over one moment and then sold the next; honesty became a game of bending truths and dodging questions; duty was a chain to wrap others within; and they were all so wrapped up in themselves they couldn't even see any of it. Or, rather, they _did_, but it was all so normal for them that they simply glanced over the reality.

In the alien world of the Fade, he had been wholly out of his depth, but here, the depths kept multiplying, and he feared he might drown or be crushed within them at any moment.

It was times like this that made him particularly glad he had Solona with him. She made the decisions, she charted their course, she bought their supplies, she told him which boot went on which foot, and she navigated mind-bogglingly dangerous politics. All he had to do was follow closely behind, at ready with his sword and shield in the event that she slipped up and they got into a fight. Fighting was straightforward. He could _do_ fighting.

Yes, recruiting Solona had been a good idea. A wonderful idea! He didn't know why he had ever once thought otherwise. At this point, he didn't know what he would have done without her.

He also didn't know what he would do without her massages. Those were _unmatched_. Unfortunately, it didn't take long for everyone else to find out either, even Sten. Which led to a rather interesting evening when Morrigan tried the same and a bit more with the qunari, one that led to a good deal of growling, a greatsword, and a lot of running on the witch's part.

Still brought a tear of joy to his eye, that memory.

Unfortunately, there was little massages could do to help their predicament in Orzammar. With the king dead and the Assembly locked in a stalemate, any thoughts of aid for the Blight were long off. It quickly became apparent the only way to move forward was to throw their weight in as well, and they had two options as to whom with: Lord Pyral Harrowmont or Prince Bhelen Aeducan.

At first, helping Lord Harrowmont had seemed a good idea. The dwarf appeared a trustworthy sort of man, and his second had asked them to participate in the Provings in his name. It sounded simple enough: go in, knock a few fighters around, and blow some of the hot air out of the prince's head. Then they had actually visited the arena and talked to the warriors as they prepared, and they had left feeling rather doubtful of the lord's capability and of his men.

Solona might have also come away somewhat mentally scarred. After skimming Baizyl's love letters, she'd quickly thrown them back into the chest and slammed it shut. Since then, she hadn't been able to stop shaking her head and muttering every now and then, "She… He… With a vase? How…? And why the _nug_?"

Alistair surmised he didn't want to know the answer to any of those questions.

Then, as though that weren't enough, several rounds at Tapster's and generous tips later loosened the hostess Corra's lips to reveal more than a few none-too-nice tales about the aging lord. By then, Solona's inhibitions had loosened enough as well – after downing more than drinking the alcohol to get the letters out of her mind – to demand they march straight into Dust Town to obtain further proof. Right then, no waiting. And, even on unsteady, wobbling legs, she had stumbled her way there and managed to talk to some of the residents, whereupon she discovered two things: Yes, the stories were true, and, yes, she was really quite sloshed and should go lie down for a bit.

After recovering – and realizing they had, at some point in Dust Town, become several silvers lighter – they regrouped in the Commons and reconsidered their sights.

Alistair, for one, felt rather disheartened. He knew this left them with no other option than assisting Prince Bhelen, and the thought did not sit well in his stomach. And neither did the remaining alcohol. He might have still been a bit tipsy, to be honest, but he wasn't about to admit it.

The situation dragged a deep sigh out of his chest. Who to choose: the honest but conservative lord or the liberal but underhanded prince? No matter whose side they took, he felt as though they were losing something important in the process. It was no wonder visitors were warned to keep clear of dwarven affairs and stick to the sights. No matter who they chose, he felt like they weren't really _winning_ anything.

Unfortunately, it wasn't as though they had much of a choice.

He leaned tiredly against the railing of an empty market stall as he watched the proceedings from a few yards' distance. While he knew Solona would actually consider anything he said to some degree, the thought of participating in politics to any extent here terrified him.

No, it was better than he just stood by and kept guard. Sword and shield – that was what he was good at.

"So, who should it be then: Bhelen or Harrowmont?" Solona asked their group. Which, at the moment, consisted of her, himself, Zevran, Morrigan, Leliana, and the hound. He'd overheard Wynne mention something about the Shaperate, but he wasn't entirely sure where everyone else had wandered off to.

"Well, my fair Warden, let us recount the facts," Zevran said. The elf sat on a stone bench, his shoulders relaxed and his expression easy, as always. "Prince Bhelen is a strong, able ruler," he continued. "He understands Orzammar politics, wants to open up the city for much-needed trade, and desires to reform the class structure, which, as it stands now, is crumbling. He is also young and determined to set about these changes himself rather than wait for a miracle to unite the Assembly. As for Lord Harrowmont…" He paused, considering, before waving his hand in the air. "Eh, not so much."

_Of course the assassin would support someone like Bhelen_, Alistair grumbled to himself.

Then again, he wasn't all that keen on backing Harrowmont anymore either.

Solona mulled this over as she sat next to Zevran. "Do you think he'll actually lend us the aid we asked for?"

The elf shrugged. "I imagine either one would, truly. To go back on a promise with the Grey Wardens isn't wise, particularly when it concerns a Blight. Unless you and Alistair were to die with none the wiser, then they might not care." He paused, considering. "But, there is also the 'after' to think of in this case."

"And you are letting this avowed killer from Antiva decide such an important matter for you, Solona?" Morrigan said, stepping over to the pair. "Perhaps your slip on the steps coming out of Dust Town was worse than I thought."

"Dear Morrigan," Zevran replied with a grin, "the politics here are not so different from those in my home country. Of course, Antiva is not set in an underground cavern carved from centuries of years of toil, surrounded by molten rock on all sides, and inhabited almost entirely of small, stoutly-built people. But, those are minor details, I am sure."

The witch scoffed, but, before she could protest further, Solona said, "Actually, we're all foreigners here." Then, a thoughtful look on her face, she added more softly, "Well, except for Shale, maybe, as golems were originally made by the dwarves. It doesn't seem to remember much of anything about here, though." She hesitated for a moment. "In fact, whenever I ask, it keeps recommending that I just crush more heads to solve my problems."

Zevran arched an eyebrow, and Morrigan sighed. "I fail to see where you're going with this wandering line of thought of yours," the witch said.

Solona flushed slightly and fiddled with the hem of her short robe. "Oh, right! Sorry," she said. "I guess what I'm driving at is that we're all pretty much on equal grounds of familiarity here. Only Bodahn and Sandal are from Orzammar, and, well, Bodahn already told me he's not the best for this sort of advice. Plus, he's not with us right now. So, Zevran's thoughts on what to do are as good as mine or anyone else's, if not better."

The elf smirked and threw an arm around the young mage's waist, pulling her closer. "See, Morrigan? Even our fearless, deadly sex goddess of a leader thinks I am an absolute stud at these governmental affairs." He waved the witch off. "Shoo, be gone! I must advise her more on dwarven matters," he said, with a leer towards the mage next to him, "and _other_ things as well."

Solona's face reddened further, and Morrigan rolled her eyes. "Better?" the witch said. "I have a difficult time believing much can be worse than trusting the word of an assassin."

Leliana, who until then had been silent, sighed. "I am not sure about any of this," she said. "In Orlais, there were parties of intrigue and decadence, and in the shadows one would…" She trailed off upon seeing everyone's eyes on her. "Er… Never mind."

"One would what?" Morrigan slowly asked.

"Leliana, sweet sister," Zevran said, his brow arched, "might we have more in common than I thought?"

"It's… It's nothing," she said.

She glanced at Solona, who stared back for a moment before looking away to fidget with her robe.

Alistair's felt his own brow rise. What sorts of secrets were they trading?

Morrigan groaned and pressed a hand to her face. "'Tis beside the point anyway," she said. "We must decide this matter of politics, sooner rather than later." She narrowed her eyes at Solona. "Surely the Circle could not have been without its own petty squabbles to deal with from time to time?"

Solona's gaze grew distance as she thought it over. As she did, Zevran gently rubbed his hand against her side. She didn't seem to notice.

But Alistair did. He shot the assassin a scowl, but it went unseen.

Or so he thought, if the grin tugging at the corners of the elf's lips was anything to go by.

But Solona still made no move to push him away, and so Alistair shoved down the rising sense of ire in his throat. _Not my business, not my business_, he reminded himself.

"Well," Solona said at last, "there were the times when a position for senior enchanter opened up. Some of the rumors I'd hear then…" She shook her head. "Nasty stuff." She paused in contemplation, a small smile crossing her lips. "Though there were quite the creative ones, too. You wouldn't believe some of the stories I heard involving a summoning font and a feather duster."

Zevran smiled widely. "Oh?" he drawled, his voice honey-thick. "You are welcome to try with me."

Alistair frowned and cast another, sharper glare at the elf. Maker's breath, would he ever quit?

Apparently not, as Zevran leaned close and whispered something in her ear that sent a rush of red to her cheeks. She attempted to scoot away, but his hold only tightened.

Now that was just too much!

Alistair strode over with a glower. "All right, that's enough of that."

"Tch. Killjoy," Zevran replied with a laugh.

But Alistair was quite serious, especially since the elf had yet to remove his arm. "As you know," he nearly growled, "we have a succession dispute to settle and a Blight to stop, so no dawdling."

Like he was one to talk, his mind silently added. He still had yet to tell anyone about the not-so-little Theirin issue and however _that_ might play out. But, at least that could wait, he reasoned, and so long as no one found out and he didn't tell anyone, it might not even become a problem. For all he knew, maybe no one wanted him to become king anyway – he knew _he_ certainly didn't!

Arl Eamon might, though.

Suddenly, he didn't feel quite as eager to reach Redcliffe anymore.

But Solona was already nodding in agreement and, after a quick zap to Zevran's hand to make him let go, rising from her seat. Soon, they were delivering Bhelen's questionable papers to Lord Helmi in the tavern and then to Lady Dace, who told them they'd need to venture down into the Deep Roads to convince Lord Dace as well. Which was not something anyone wanted to hear, because a trip to the Deep Roads, no matter how short or less full of darkspawn than usual, was still a trip to the Deep Roads.

Unfortunately, once again, it wasn't as though they had much of a choice.

So they packed and prepared, Solona, Sten, Zevran, and Alistair (because he wasn't about to leave the mage alone with the two people whom he trusted but a smidgen more than Morrigan) all steeling themselves for the unforgiving trek ahead. It was as they stopped to eat a final meal before heading down, however, that they realized a certain something about their supplies.

Leliana peered into one of the packs. "Umm. Pardon me, but when was the last time we went shopping for food? Or for anything, really?"

Solona's brow creased. "A couple days ago, in that small town we passed on the way here. Why?"

The lay sister picked up the bag and turned it over, and a small pile of stones clattered out and onto the ground. "Well, we appear to have spent all our money on rocks instead. A wonderful investment, considering we're surrounded by them."

"What? That can't be right!" Alistair said and opened up another of their packs himself. Only to find it also full of dirt and pebbles. He opened up a different one to see it in a similar state as well, and the next and the one following that proved the same. "H-How can this be?"

Zevran plucked up the last of the bags and emptied it of its gravel. "My theory? We have been robbed."

Alistair stared at the elf in shock. "What? Who would even rob us? We're Grey Wardens – travelers! We'll be gone as soon as this business with a ruler is done."

"Exactly," Wynne answered with a nod. "Unconnected to anyone of power, no protection other than our own, and too short on time to bother with pursuing a thief. Who _wouldn't_ try to steal from us in such a case?"

As Alistair stood there sputtering, Solona stepped over and looked into one of the bags. "Wow!" she said, impressed. "Not even a pen or a button left. They really cleaned us out!"

He turned to gape at her in disbelief. "You _cannot_ be excited about this. You just _can't_."

But, no, she really was smiling fairly broadly, and he was quite certain it wasn't a hallucination. "But it is exciting!" she replied. "I've never been robbed behind my back before. And to use rocks as weight, to fool us into believing we still had our things a little longer – they actually thought it through! It's quite fascinating."

Morrigan snorted. "Of course, 'twould be you of all people to find a silver lining in this."

Alistair ran a hand over his face and groaned. "But I thought someone was guarding our supplies to prevent this exact thing from happening!" He set his gaze on each member of the party until, at last, it came to rest on Leliana in particular. "Well, what were you doing?"

The lay sister frowned. "I have been with you this entire time," she said. "I could not have done so."

He switched his focus to Wynne. "I have spent the day at the Shaperate," the elder mage explained, "asking questions and looking through books to see what precedent there may be for similar successions."

He briefly considered the dog before giving himself a mental slap and looking at Sten. "The Warden sent me to the entrance to watch for more of your regent's men," the giant said.

He didn't even bother with Zevran, who chuckled in response. Morrigan then?

But the witch only patted her own untouched satchel with pride and smirked. "You have none but yourself to blame," she said. "I am not so foolish as to trust another with my belongings."

Slowly, ever so slowly – because he didn't want to startle the thing and get crushed, not because it still scared the living daylights out of him, he told himself – he turned to look up at Shale.

The golem shrugged, its shoulders making a low, grinding noise as it did. "They seemed unimportant trivialities. I have no use for such things."

"Well, did you catch sight of who did it?" he asked.

"Yes, of course I did," it said. "I stood by and watched after all. It was quite the curious spectacle to see them scurrying about so quickly, like rats in a larder I would imagine."

"Then, at the very least, you can describe them to us. We might still be able to catch up and get our things back!"

"Unlikely," the golem said. "It has been some hours since, and there is no telling what crevice they have squirmed their way into by now. Besides, all you flesh creatures look the same to me; I could not tell one from the other."

Alistair muttered under his breath and let himself sag against a nearby wall.

There was no way they could do this, he decided. The Deep Roads, the political disputes, the civil war, the Blight – they were all equally impossible when they couldn't even protect their gear. Next thing they knew, they'd probably wake up naked and without any weapons, and then what could they do to stop the darkspawn threat? Maker willing, the archdemon had better have a sense of humor, because that was the only way he could think of to defeat it with their incompetence.

He wondered if throwing pies would be too much for such a battle strategy.

Solona patted him on the shoulder, dragging him out of his thoughts. "Don't worry, Alistair. We left our personal valuables with Bodahn and Sandal, and we still have our clothes, armor, and money. What we lost can be easily replaced."

"Easily?" he said, scowling at her. "And precisely where will we find a place to buy more food, bedrolls, cookware, and all the other things we had in those bags?"

She waved a hand at that which lay all around them: the Orzammar market.

Oh, right.

In short time, they had a list of equipment and supplies to purchase, and, one by one, they checked them off. As they added bread, pots, pans, dried meat, cups, blankets, and other items to their packs – and this time kept a careful watch on them – Alistair's mood improved considerably.

Then, as he discovered, the more coin they spent and the more interest they took in the merchandise, the more the shopkeepers and their assistants opened up to them and actually became _friendly_, cracking jokes and, in one man's case, gushing over his newborn daughter. It reminded him that, as unbelievably conceited as some of the dwarves were, many were still just normal people trying to get by from day to day.

He had to admit, though, that not all of his returning morale came from this strange turn of fortune. Perhaps it was just the rest of the ale working its way through his body, but he found he didn't mind one bit the view of Solona's backside as he followed her. Nor did he resent how he found himself utterly entranced by the way in which her hair – which had slowly but surely grown over the past months – slipped back and forth across her shoulders.

It was the ale, he decided. Definitely the ale.

Except that even _he_ wasn't stupid enough to believe that.

Then they stepped up to a shop practically oozing a variety of wonderful smells that stole away his attention completely. Some sweet, some sharp, some sour – while all bore subtly different scents, the predominant odor shared among them screamed only one word:

Cheese!

Blocks of cheese, wheels of cheese, slices of cheese, some in rows, several in stacks, and others piled on top of one another, each lovingly wrapped in or separated by a thin sheet of paper. Some he quickly recognized – cheddar, brie, emmental – but the names of others eluded him. The great diversity at once made him want to sing the praises of Orzammar from the top of Redcliffe Castle and had him instantly paralyzed from the crushing indecision of which to actually _buy_.

Maker, there was no way he could decide something as important as this!

He desperately looked over at Solona, who heaved a sigh.

"Alistair," she said, "it's just cheese. And I thought you liked cheese!"

He shook his head. "No, no, I _do_."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Then why don't you handle it? You'd get to pick out what you like for a change."

"That's exactly it!" he whimpered. "I'd never be able to decide! _You_ do it."

She sighed again and, taking him by the arm, gently led him inside and over to a table where a middle-aged woman worked at cleaning the surface. "Here," she whispered to him, "I'll help you through it, and you'll see there's nothing to worry about." Then, louder, she spoke to the woman, "Excuse me, but my friend here would like to buy some cheese. May we try some samples first?"

The dwarven woman turned and smiled at them. "Of course! What would you like?"

Solona looked at Alistair, but he felt himself too frozen to speak. She stood up on the balls of her feet and whispered into his ear, "Point at something."

He did – though he didn't even know what _at_ – and, with a quick, courteous bow, the woman went to get a ladder and a knife to cut them off a piece. After doing so, she handed the sample to him, which he split in half and gave the other part to Solona. As the mage ate her portion, he stuffed his into his mouth and then, with a pleased moan, relished the flavor that burst across his tongue.

"Good?" Solona asked, smiling at him.

He nodded. "Good. Very good."

The next sample he chose without prompting – a yellow, crumbly type of cheese with a sour aftertaste. This he shook his head to, but the next one he pointed out was sweet and tender, and he asked Solona if they could get some.

"Certainly," she replied and handed over enough money to buy a sizeable portion. "But wouldn't you like at least one more type for a bit of variety?"

He happily agreed, and, after a few more samples, they bought another wedge of cheese. Perhaps it wasn't so bad deciding on his own, just as she'd said.

"We'll need enough to last us till Redcliffe," Solona pointed out. As he looked around with a longing gaze, she smiled and asked, "How about I continue shopping with the others and come back for you in a bit?"

He absentmindedly nodded, too taken with his surroundings, and hardly noticed as she left. Nor did he notice as the piles of purchased cheese quickly grew on the tabletop. He became utterly absorbed in the many textures, flavors, and odors of the cheeses around him, and, for a time, he fancied himself a connoisseur of unmatched taste.

Then Solona and the others returned, and he realized he had a small mountain of stacked cheeses and one _very_ happy shopkeeper next to him.

Zevran cast a curious look at the rather large pile. "Is it a… fetish, my friend?" he inquired, his brow creased. "Truly, of all things to find _comfort_ in, it is a pity. You have my condolences."

Alistair glared at the group. He hated them. All of them. Well, except for Solona, and maybe Wynne.

"That's it," he grumbled. "You lost your cheese privileges."

"'Tis no loss to me," Morrigan archly replied. "I have no desire to have any now, knowing what you have done with them."

It was settled then; he could _never_ win at anything in Orzammar, not even at getting the last word.


	12. Bait and Battles

Author's Notes: Happy New Year, everyone! Here's another chapter to kick things off with, with more minor edits to prior ones.

Snarkoleptic - Thank you for another kind review and following the story for so long! I'm so glad to know you're still enjoying it. Yes, as much as Alistair may like to pretend he doesn't know much, I think he's got a good deal of a mind in there; it's just well-buried underneath his nervousness and his love of cheese. :)

As always, everyone, feel free to leave a review! It always help to let me know if there's some way I could improve the story or if I'm still doing well, and it does make me feel appreciated. Thanks, and enjoy!

Chapter 12: Bait and Battles

Battle strategies were not one of their strong suits, Alistair discovered. And by "not one of their strong suits," he meant they were really downright terrible at them. As far as simply barging in and throwing weapons and blasts of magic around had gotten them with darkspawn, demons, and the like, it did decidedly less with people who actually knew what they were doing and had time to prepare.

Like the Carta. _Definitely_ the Carta. Between the blades in his sides, the arrows in his back, and the barrels combusting around every other corner, he knew it was a lesson in pain he wouldn't soon forget. And neither would Solona, Sten, and Zevran, if their groaning, equally bedridden forms were anything to go by.

"Tell me again," Solona gasped, "how exactly did we survive that fight?"

"My guess," Zevran replied, "would be Jarvia's great interest in your backside."

"She was _not_ interested in my backside," she said, "save, perhaps, for sticking her daggers into it. Those _hurt_."

The elf gave a weak laugh. "Oh, truly? She had the most gleeful expression on her face as she chased you around the room. And it was a fortuitous distraction as well; it gave us a chance to deal with her henchmen first." He paused, considering, with a grin. "If you were to ask me, I think you should use your backside – and front – to such an advantage more often. You are more than welcome to try with me."

Alistair's hands itched to wipe the self-satisfied look off the assassin's face. At the moment, though, he could do little about it. His arms ached from half-healed cuts and blows, and his lungs burned from a particularly bad blast of fire. It hurt enough to simply turn his head to glower at the elf from where he rested on a bed. They had been lucky to stagger out of the place afterwards with no other confrontation than Janar's complaints. He could only hope he didn't look _too_ ridiculous with singed eyebrows and hair.

By the expression on Solona's face, he assumed he wasn't the only one approaching their patience's end. While her cheeks still tinged pink at Zevran's comment, she didn't shy away as she usually did. "I am so glad you're amused by this, Zevran," she dryly muttered. "Laughter is the best medicine, or so I've been told."

The elf chuckled, until a sudden coughing fit broke through and racked his frame. Solona reached to cast a healing spell over him, but Morrigan, who had been sitting dispassionately by, beat her to it. A gentle, white light enveloped the assassin, and soon his chest settled and he ceased to wheeze.

The witch glared down at him and said, "'Tis foolish to move about and talk so, elf. You are still recovering from your injuries, and the old woman is out purchasing her ingredients. If you tear open your wounds, I will not be able to help you."

Then she turned to Solona, who was in the process of pushing herself up.

She shoved the young mage back down onto the cot. "And _you_," she said, "should not be moving either for the same reasons."

But Solona resisted and hauled herself upright again. "It's been over two hours since Wynne left on her own," she said. "She should have been back by now. What if she got into trouble?"

Morrigan huffed but didn't bother trying to force her back down again. "You say that as though I care what happens to her. If she cannot take care of herself in such a place as a market, then she has no business being on a battlefield."

Solona frowned at the witch. "It's not just that. There are Harrowmont fanatics about, and now we have half of Dust Town ready to slit our throats in our sleep. None of us are safe here, not even in the market." She looked away, her brow furrowed. "I knew I should have sent someone with her."

Morrigan snorted. "I do not see why you are so intent on her safety."

"She's our healer," Solona said. "She knows more about potions than any of us put together, and she can keep Alistair from throwing up all the time."

"That was one day," Alistair muttered. "_One day_."

"Besides," she added with a slight grin, "she has all our money."

Morrigan sighed. "'Tis a reason as good as any, I suppose."

Solona swung her legs over the side of her cot. "Well, now that that's settled-"

"Not so fast." The witch stood in front of the mage and crossed her arms. "Pray tell, who shall you send on this venture? _You_ shan't go, as injured as you are, and none here," she said, gesturing to Alistair, Sten, and Zevran, "are in fit condition to go anywhere either. I cannot be spared from my task here, Leliana would become distracted by the first clothing store she came across, and the golem refuses orders. And do not even suggest sending Captain Cu- the _dog_ to do it."

At his mention, the hound picked up his head from the floor and made an inquiring whine. When no one paid him any mind, he sighed and lay his head back down.

Silence – aside from the muted drunken ruckus filtering up from the floor below – wrapped around the inn room like a too-tight glove. Solona seemed to mull this over for a time, running the tips of her fingers along her ribs, but Alistair didn't miss the moment when those tips began to glimmer.

And neither did Sten. "Unwise," the giant grunted. "You are exhausted. Rest."

She shook her head, and the glow brightened as the healing spell began in earnest. "I'm well enough. I can at least walk, and that's all I need to do to look for Wynne. I can also report back to Prince Bhelen while I'm out."

"But what if you're attacked?" Alistair rasped. "Don't tell me you plan to _stroll_ away in retreat."

"It'll be fine, Alistair. I'll act nonchalant and blend in," she replied, dismissing the magic.

"In a city of dwarves?" Zevran said with a chuckle. "That would be a feat."

She frowned again. "I'll be quick!"

Morrigan rolled her eyes. "'Quick' is not a word I would use to describe you, Solona."

"What do you mean?"

"You _browse_," the witch said. "The shops, the stalls, the carts, the signs, even the _trees_ when we're on the road – you insist on stopping to look at them all."

The mage fidgeted. "You… noticed?"

"A better question would be who has _not_?" Morrigan said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Solona said in a small voice. "It's just this is all still so new to me, so amazing. To think that forests could be so large, or the sky so blue, or a street so covered in shi-" She came to an abrupt stop at the flat looks everyone shot her. "Er, right. I'll take someone with me to keep me on track."

"And for protection," Alistair added.

She sighed. "Fine. And for protection."

Morrigan shrugged and walked back to her chair. "If you wish to injure yourself further, feel free," she said, sitting down, "but I shan't come to drag you back to your bed so you may bleed to death in comfort. You will have to settle for wherever you fall."

"You are just _so_ caring, you know that?" Alistair muttered. Then he looked over at Solona, who was pulling on her boots. "So, who will you bring with you?"

"I'll ask Shale," she replied.

The idea of the bird-hating, mage-hating, most-everything-hating golem made his shoulders tense. "That's not a comfort."

"Then Captain Cuddles?"

The dog sat up and gave a happy bark, and Alistair moaned. "How can you say that name with a straight face?"

But Solona was already up and edging towards the door with the hound not far behind. She smiled at him and said, "I'll ask Leliana to come up and keep you company."

"What? _No_-"

Then the door shut, and he was left grumbling to himself.

Zevran gave an overdramatic, wistful sigh. "She _does_ have a very nice backside, doesn't she?"

"Just shut up," Alistair groaned.

After a moment, the sound of footsteps approaching in the hallway came, and the door opened again. Leliana poked her head in and sang, "Supper time, everyone! I brought soup!"

Well, at least this time he could share the misery.

Once everyone had finished their meals – or disposed of their contents without the sister's notice – the following hour passed without event. Which was to say it could not have been more boring.

Sten nodded off in short time, and Leliana sat in another chair, humming to herself as she cleaned her boots. Morrigan by turns crafted poultices and changed their bandages, though not at all gently. Zevran chatted incessantly with everyone or, rather, with himself, and everyone did their best to ignore him. Alistair, on the verge of bursting into song – no matter how painful – to entertain himself, flipped through a tome as thick as his wrist that he had chanced upon in Solona's pack. And it wasn't snooping, technically, if the top of the bag was already open, he figured. _Stone for Sword: A Beginner's Practical Guide to Primal Magics, Part Five, Second Edition, with a Preface by Senior Enchanter Ellis_ was the title, though there wasn't much to suggest – in the title itself or the contents – that it was a beginner's anything.

At least there were pretty pictures.

When the next two hours passed in this way, Alistair began to wonder what exactly was taking Solona so long. Was she deliberately trying to drive him insane by making him wait? He could barely focus his eyes on the pages before him, as they kept snapping to the door at the smallest sound in anticipation. His entire body ached to get up and find her and Wynne, and he had only his wounds and Morrigan's piercing glare to keep him in place.

Then, just as he was considering making a break for it anyway – if nothing more than to break the monotony – a series of footsteps, some booming, some light, some scratching, came down the hall, as well as the distinct sound of something heavy being dragged.

A moment later, Wynne opened the door and the hound came bounding in, barking and wagging his hindquarters. Shale squeezed itself in the next, and it took another for Alistair to realize it was carrying someone in its arms: Solona. Splatters of blood and some sort of white powder covered her clothes and skin, and she could barely hold her head up. She groaned as the golem set her down onto the only unoccupied cot. Where she touched the sheets, they stained red, though the color didn't spread.

Alistair gaped at her, aghast. "What _happened_?" he asked. "I- But you- That is-"

"It's not as bad as it looks," Wynne softly interrupted. "I've healed the worst of it; I believe she's merely still a little disoriented."

He looked at Solona again, his brow creasing in concern as she groaned again. "But what-"

"Happened?" Wynne finished. She pulled a chair up next to the desk against the wall and set her bag on it. Then she began taking out and arranging the components she had purchased – herbs, deep mushrooms, life stones, and so forth – on top of the table. "Well," she said, "after I finished my shopping – in which nothing untoward occurred, mind you; I'm not a helpless old woman – we stopped by the palace to speak with the prince. While there, we ran into a revenant in the kitchen."

Alistair felt his jaw drop. "A… A revenant? What in the Maker's name was a _revenant_ doing there?"

"Looking for a glass of milk?" she replied with a small shrug. "Your guess is as good as mine, Alistair. All I know is that Solona knocked over a vial while searching for a bite to eat, and the next moment the demon was trying to slice her in two."

"And I can see the fight did not go well," Zevran said with a rueful smile. "No surprise, considering our skill with tactics."

"Actually, it went very well," Wynne said, her brow raised. "Solona ran around the center table as it chased her, and we all attacked it in turns until it fell."

Zevran and Morrigan took a moment to imagine the scene before bursting into laughter. Leliana covered her mouth in a valiant effort to keep hers in, though a giggle still slipped out. Alistair, for a moment, felt torn between concern and mirth, but the latter finally won out as he thought of the assassin or, even better, the witch in the same situation. Oh, he would get down on his knees and thank the Maker if _that_ happened!

Sten grumbled as the commotion wakened him. Without a word, he turned over onto his side, slapped a pillow over his head, and proceeded to act as though none of them existed.

Then Solona did the same, though for different reasons. "Yes, please do tell them all about it," she moaned. "I don't think I feel humiliated enough yet."

"If you insist," Wynne said with a smile. She tapped a finger against her chin in thought. "On the third roundabout, she knocked over a bag of flour, getting it all over herself and the revenant. Then, on the fifth, she stepped on a-"

"I didn't mean it, you know!" she snapped.

Wynne stifled a laugh. "Well then, you should have said so, child. Honestly!" Then, in a slightly more serious tone, she said, "In any case, no, her wounds didn't come from the revenant. They came from the dragon in the throne room."

"Dragon… in the throne room?" Alistair repeated, uncertain he had heard correctly. "Is that a code word for something? You can't tell me that you seriously encountered a-"

"Dragon?" Wynne said. "Yes. Yes, we did."

"Why- But- How did it even _fit_?"

Wynne shrugged again. "Once more, I don't know, only that Solona found a strange inscription there and asked us to stand on several plates in the floor to see what would happen. Next thing I knew – dragon!"

"To see what would happen?" Zevran managed around a cackle. "Do you truly have that much of a death wish, Solona?"

"I do _not_," Solona mumbled. "I was just curious, that's all."

"And you know the saying about cats and curiosity, yes?" the elf replied.

She muttered something incomprehensible through the pillow but spoke no more.

Shale, however, added, "If nothing else, we have rid the world of another creature that _flies_. A successful day, in my opinion!"

"Aside from all that," Wynne said, her tone a touch disquieted as her eyes suddenly hardened, "we do have some good news, bad news, and worse news. Which would you like to hear first?"

Oh no. Alistair knew this game. He'd heard it enough times in the Denerim abbey from the sisters. They would tell him he could skip his afternoon studies that day, shortly before telling him it was just so he could sweep the halls and then clean the stables. There was never any way he could actually come out on top at this sort of thing.

With a sigh, he said, "Might as well tell us the good news, I guess."

"Well, we have discovered Solona can run fast."

His brow creased in confusion. "How is that _good_?"

"She does wonderfully acting as bait."

Now he didn't know whether to stare in horror or collapse in laughter, a most decidedly odd feeling. "And the bad news?" he choked out.

"Prince Bhelen wants us to go into the Deep Roads again, except farther this time, in search of the Paragon Branka."

He moaned – any urge to laugh gone – and buried his face into the sheets beneath him. "And you said there was _worse_ news? I'm not sure that's possible."

"Yes, it is," Wynne said, frowning. "We already found a guide for the journey."

Alistair peeked up at her around the cloth. "A guide? How's that worse news than the Deep Roads?"

Shale took a step back into the hall, reached over, and pulled what it had apparently been dragging earlier in. A horrid odor of rotten fish, cheap alcohol, and piss wafted through the open door. Then he saw what had to be the brightest, bushiest mane of red hair in all of Thedas on a dwarf with a face that could (and likely had) cracked a mirror and then a sink for good measure.

The dwarf belched and squinted at him. "What you lookin' at, boy? You never seen a dwarf before?"

Alistair gave a pleading look to the elder mage that said, _Please, oh _please_, tell me this is a joke._ "Where did you get him?" he asked.

"Downstairs," Wynne answered. "Solona recruited, of course."

"I stand by my decision," Solona said, jabbing a finger into the air. "Everyone else I asked refused."

"And it didn't cross your mind there might be a _reason_ for that?" he said.

"Hey!" the dwarf interrupted, stumbling to his feet. "Are you sayin' I can't fight?" He drew out a battleaxe and began swinging it around, and everyone who could reared back. "I'll show you! I'll-"

The blade cleaved through the legs of the desk and smashed into the wall. The table instantly gave way and sent Wynne's ingredients to the floor in a tumbling cascade of herbs and powders. Then the dwarf tripped over his own feet, hit the floorboards face-first, and passed out.

From the room below, a voice yelled, "You break it, you bought it!"

Alistair dug his face into the sheets again and groaned.


	13. Silence and the Swift

Author's Notes: Here's another chapter! Once again, I only made minor edits to previous chapters, so there's no real need to go back and reread.

AdraKannon - Wow! It's great to know you're enjoying the story so much! I didn't think I was actually going to inspire anyone to play a mage with this, but it's wonderful to hear. Thanks for the review!

EvilBlood - Glad to know you're still enjoying the story, and thanks for the review! I'll try not to let you down with Oghren. :)

Chapter 13: Silence and the Swift

There were many types of quiet in the world, Alistair knew.

Some were good, such as the times he had spent during his childhood in Redcliffe Castle waiting in the kitchen for cookies, fresh from the oven, to finish cooling. He could recall the sweet scent that suffused his entire being as he breathed it in deep under the warm, smiling eyes of the cook. There had also been the peace he'd found atop the estate, watching the soldiers file in and out of the courtyard below in well-practiced patterns. In that calm, he could feel the world winding away below him and the horizons within him disappear.

However, there were the bad ones, too. In Redcliffe, there'd been the tightly-strung silences after the arguments between Arl Eamon and Lady Isolde, full of lingering should's, ought's, and ever-frightening would-do-better's. There'd been the hushed nights in the chantry dormitory in Denerim, left to his own thoughts and the nameless ache in his chest that stretched into his heart. And, yes, this category also included that awful quiet of _study time_ in the chantry library, when he had wanted nothing more than to leap out the nearest window and go play in the sunny streets.

In the Deep Roads, there was only the bad sort of quiet, although that really wasn't a surprise. With each step they took further in, the silence thickened and swirled about them like a sea on a starless night. The air of the caves was dank and heavy, soaking his clothes and slipping down his neck. It sent his hairs standing on end and his muscles aching from the strain of not shivering. The taste of it rolled gritty in his mouth and lungs like fine sand, a result of the lyrium dust that seemed to increasingly pervade everything the deeper they trekked.

But of course it wasn't a complete quiet. The stone and rocks beneath their feet crunched and rustled as they walked, and their breaths echoed through the caverns in soft murmurs and sighs. From somewhere in the distance, the low whisper of dripping water hit his ears, though the sound never seemed to stay in one place.

No, it was between the noises that he tensed – an anxious silence that squeezed his heart tight. In those moments, he thought of all the things that could happen at any time, the possibility they had taken a wrong turn, and the realization how horribly empty and _alone_ it was there.

Except they were not alone. Underneath that ocean of quiet, the biting undercurrent of "wrong wrong _wrong_" strummed at his nerves. He could feel them in the shadows of his awareness, shifting and slinking through the ruins all around them. By the way Solona's gaze constantly twitched back and forth across the passageways, he guessed she felt it, too.

It was almost a relief when they encountered darkspawn or deepstalkers, when fear solidified into something real that they could drive a sword through or set aflame. He and Oghren would hold the line as Leliana and Solona sent their respective arrows and magic flying, and in that manner they made short work of their foes.

Well, all right, it was more that _he_ would hold the line as Leliana and Solona sent their respective arrows and magic flying, and everyone did their best to dodge Oghren's wild attacks in the process.

Strangely enough, the dwarf actually hit their enemies more often than not. However drunk he might be, it didn't seem to significantly impair his accuracy. Or, the other possibility was that the alcohol _did_ impair it, but he was such a skilled warrior when sober that he merely appeared above-average when boozed off his feet. The latter prospect almost made Alistair wish he could see the dwarf in action when clear-headed.

Like that was ever going to happen. Every other time he glanced at the man, he was busy chugging whatever foul drink he had stored in his canteen.

Regardless, the improving ease and quickness at which they dispatched their opponents brought a much-needed spark of good to what was otherwise an absolutely terrible day. They actually had a method now – an organized strategy of taking places and working together rather than running about willy-nilly – and it felt almost… professional. As though they were real, experienced soldiers, not the bunch of nobodies recruited off the street – or in cells or taverns, as the case may be – they were.

And he could almost believe they were truly that professional, if not for the fact that Solona took to lighting their way with floating, rainbow-colored orbs. And twirling them about the group at odd intervals.

Oghren batted at a purple sphere as it drifted near him. "Bah! Sodding fairy lights!"

"They're not 'fairy lights,'" Solona said. "They're-"

"Whatever they are, just keep 'em out of my way, glow-girl," Oghren growled, "or I'll start using 'em for target practice."

The lights immediately lifted another three feet up into the air and stayed there.

"This is one of your special spells, isn't it?" Leliana inquired, after they had walked in silence for some time again. "Like the one you use for drying laundry?"

Solona mulled this over. "Yes, I guess you could say that."

"What did you use it for in the Tower? Guiding yourself in darker parts of the libraries?"

She gave a small laugh. "Oh, no, most every part of the place was well-illuminated," she replied. "The templars made sure of that. It wouldn't do to have mages doing who-knows-what in a corner they couldn't see into."

"Then at night, when sneaking to the kitchen for a little bite to eat?" Leliana asked. "Or, perhaps, for paying a _special_ visit to a beau down the hall?" She giggled.

Alistair tried not to bristle a little at that.

"No, not that either," Solona said. "Besides, the dormitories were mixed-sex; you didn't need lights to find your way for something like that."

All right, that time he couldn't really help bristling. Then he nearly slapped himself for feeling _jealous_ of all things while in the Deep Roads. Really, where were his priorities?

Oghren gave a bark of laughter that boomed through the cavern. Alistair, Solona, and Leliana skid to a halt for a short moment, worrying if anything had heard. But nothing came barreling out of the darkness, and they relaxed.

"Hah!" the dwarf said. "And here I was starting to think all you mages were prim and proper."

"Well, what _did_ you use the lights for in the Tower?" Leliana asked again.

"For holiday decorations," Solona said. "Some other mages would help out as well. It added a little cheer to the place."

Holiday decorations. She was leading them with _holiday decorations_.

That did it for Alistair. He'd been following in relative silence – a rarity, he knew – since entering the crossing, stuffing down all his thoughts and complaints and _why were they even in here of all places_, and now he just couldn't hold himself in anymore.

Perhaps it was because of the hunger pangs that had started to gnaw on his stomach over an hour ago. Perhaps it was because his ribs were still smarting a bit from the fight with the Carta, his legs had started to ache from the hike through the caves, and his arms hurt from carrying his sword and shield at ready for so long. Or, perhaps it was simply that his mind couldn't get away from the fact that this was the Maker-forsaken _Deep Roads_ and Grey Wardens only came down here to _die_.

Regardless of why, before he could stop himself, he spat out, "You're solving our lighting problem in the Deep Roads with _holiday decorations_?"

Solona huffed. "So? They're still lights, and-"

"And they're _holiday decorations_," he interrupted, gesturing to one in exasperation. "I mean, it's bad enough that they look ridiculous, but holiday decorations? Really? How did that even come into your mind to begin with? 'Hey, everyone, I know how to make up for our lack of torches in one of the worst places in Thedas – with a little _cheer_!'"

Oghren grunted. "Told ya – fairy lights."

For a moment, the mage looked visibly hurt, but then she looked away and he could tell no more. "It's the only light spell I know very well," she said, her tone even as she crossed her arms. "And I _said_ I was sorry for dropping the torches off a cliff, Alistair. It was dark, and I was having a hard time passing them to you."

"I was right next to you," he pointed out, the frustration still burning strong inside of him, "and the cliff was clear across on the _other side_ of the room."

She gave a sharp shrug. "It was _very_ dark, all right?"

"On the bright side," Leliana quickly interjected, "at least these new lights mean we don't have to hold a torch the entire time we're here. Think of how tired our arms would be by now!"

Solona only sighed, Alistair snorted, and Oghren grunted again, and the group trudged on further into the darkness.

As much as Alistair didn't like to admit it (and Oghren undoubtedly even less), it didn't take long for them to reverse their opinions on the usefulness of such "holiday decorations." After all, it didn't require a genius to figure out that having one option for illumination in the Deep Roads was still infinitely better than having none.

It did, however, take another run-in with a revenant to realize that.

"Go left! Left!" Alistair shouted. "Maker's breath, your _other_ left!"

Solona quickly weaved back and forth across the road, at once skirting strikes from the revenant and trying not to trip and fall into the lava lining the road. "My left? I was going by yours!" she yelled back.

"Go anyone's left, as long as you keep moving!" Leliana said, readying an arrow.

The mage nodded. "Right!"

"No, left!" Alistair yelled.

Solona nearly screamed in exasperation. "Don't make me cast a fireball at you!"

Oghren pounded his breastplate with a fist and waved his axe, trying to catch the demon's attention. "Hey, nug-licker! Are ya too scared to face a real warrior?"

The revenant just continued steadfastly chasing the mage.

Oghren changed tactics. "Hey, glow-girl, can ya run this way, or does tripping work better?"

"I would like to," Solona snapped, "if I could!"

The revenant closed in, cornering her between a collapsed wall and a pile of broken crates. She feinted left, but it wasn't fooled as it stepped in front of her and blocked the path. Then the demon bore down on the mage, sword raised and ready to cleave her in two.

Alistair felt like he was wading through mud as he ran towards her. The sounds of Oghren's shouting and Leliana's arrows whirring past melted away. All he could hear was the beating of his heart in his ears. All he could see was the revenant's blade falling ever further down towards Solona. All he could feel was his armor and the padding beneath it, slick with blood and sweat, as they dug into his shoulders and legs. The smell of dirt and grime was strong, and the mineral-sweet dust of lyrium tasted sharp and hard on his tongue.

Then the world came rushing back.

Solona threw herself to the side, and the revenant's blade rang against the stone ground not a moment after. As it raised its sword again, the mage took the chance to dive between its legs.

And slammed her staff into its crotch.

It didn't flinch.

"What were you thinking?" Alistair shouted. "It's dead already; it doesn't care!"

"It was worth a shot!" Solona replied as she got to her feet.

The revenant twisted around, sweeping its sword about with it. She slid around the attack and started dashing towards him, where Oghren and Leliana stood waiting not far beyond.

At last! Alistair readied his sword and shield for a thorough bashing, and as Solona sprinted past him he struck out. However, the demon hefted up its own shield at the last moment, and both the shield rush and the follow-up strike from his blade fell uselessly upon it. Leliana nocked an arrow one second and let it fly the next, only to watch as it went shooting an inch too far to the right. Then Oghren swung at the monster with his axe, but the weapon merely nicked the edge of its greave before hitting the ground with a clang.

Solona's eyes met Alistair's as each briefly turned toward the other, and he felt his heart lodge in his throat. They had missed their chance. Now all that rested before her were the winding expanses of the Deep Roads and death.

"I'll make another pass!" she shouted.

_Wait, what?_ he thought.

But then she disappeared around the corner, a green orb following and the revenant on her heels, and he had no chance to ask. In short time, the light footfalls of the mage and the loud stomps of the revenant faded and were no more. Alistair, Leliana, and Oghren all stared at each other in bewilderment and more than a little concern. An anxious, tense silence took hold as they stood waiting and unknowing.

Then the spheres around them started to flicker out, and there came a new sort of silence – the silence of panic.

Alistair frantically looked around for fuel for a makeshift torch. The pile of broken crates came into his sight again, and, taking hold of one, he tore apart a side and handed the pieces to Leliana, who then threw them to Oghren. The dwarf neatly caught the bundle and dipped one end into the lava flowing alongside the road.

The wood, aged and wet, instantly crumbled into nothing more than splinters and disappeared into the flame.

Alistair ripped apart several more crates in the effort to start a fire, but every attempt ended in similar failure. After another minute, the spheres dimmed and then went out.

The three huddled near the side of the road and waited. Though the molten rock alongside the path provided heat, it provided a great deal less light. They could make out each other and the burning line the lava made as it flowed down further into the caverns, but the rest was left to what horrors their imaginations could envision.

Which, in the Deep Roads, was a lot.

"You know what?" Oghren said. "Getting those fairy lights back wouldn't be so sodding bad right now."

Leliana sighed and fingered the braid in her hair. "I just hope Solona's all right."

Alistair, for once, said nothing. He had never felt more terrified in his life. They were far in the Deep Roads, without light, without much food or supplies, and with only an old map – which Solona was carrying, he just remembered – and the years-old chance of a Paragon still alive somewhere. Who was very likely insane by now, he assumed, because he was already starting to feel antsy after just half a day inside.

That, and Solona was gone.

_Gone._

He could barely wrap his mind around it. He didn't dare try very hard, for fear that he'd start to scream or weep or worse. And he couldn't do that, not when Leliana and Oghren were now looking at him as though he knew what to do. He was their leader until she came back, and leaders did not break down into sobbing messes. That was how it worked, didn't it?

Maker, he didn't know. He didn't know anything!

He tried to think, but memories were crashing through his mind like a flood from a storm. Solona's smile at their first meeting, her comforting voice and a hand on his shoulder after Ostagar, the way she had looked at him that night in the rain so long ago… Gone, gone, _gone_, it all shouted at him.

Should he go look for her? He couldn't so much as guess at which twisting cave or path she had taken, and he doubted even more he could catch up to her in his heavy armor. And, even he did manage to find her, what shape would he be in by then? Would he be ready to defend her against whatever creatures she had come across, or would she be the one to have to defend him?

Should they go back to Orzammar then, if she didn't return? He might be able to find the way, if they stuck to the roads and felt along the walls, and there they might find help. But a glance at the hard gaze and set jaw of the dwarf told him only he and Leliana would be the ones to make that journey, a prospect most unsettling. With three people, they could probably take on any small bands of darkspawn they encountered. But with two? He felt more than a little uncertain.

And, if he left, he would be leaving Solona to whatever fate awaited her down here. She might not even survive long enough before they returned with a search party.

The thought of leaving her froze his heart solid.

_No!_ his mind screamed. He couldn't do that!

Then there was nothing to do but to press on. Except that brought him back to the first dilemma of no light and, now, no map. Which then brought him back to the other dilemma that he had no idea what to do.

He felt on the verge of hyperventilating. Or crying. Or maybe both.

Maker's breath, where was Solona? They needed her! _He_ needed her!

And, most of all, he wanted her to be _safe_.

Then they heard it: the quick, light fall of steps closely followed by the thunderous stomping of the revenant. A second later, the spheres around them – which they had assumed had winked out entirely – burst back to life in an array that lit up the roads from wall to wall.

A newfound hope flaring within, they each took up their weapons and readied themselves. Before long, Solona came running around another corner of the Deep Roads with the monster close behind.

And, was it only Alistair's imagination, or did the revenant look a little winded?

"Hey!" the mage called, waving. "Did you miss me?"

"More than you can imagine!" Leliana replied, nocking an arrow and letting it fly.

The shot hit the revenant squarely in an opening between a pauldron and the chainmail covering its chest. The demon staggered for a moment before pulling itself to weakly continue on.

Oghren laughed as the mage swiftly drew nearer. "Well, what do you know?" he said. "The old gal was right after all – glow-girl here runs faster than a nug hearing the dinner bell!"

"I heard that!" Solona yelled. "You better hit this time, or _you'll_ be the one running next!"


	14. Restful Reparation

Author's Notes: Hey, everyone! Hope everyone had a lovely weekend (or still are, if you're celebrating Martin Luther King, Jr. Day). I did make somewhat significant changes to parts of the last chapter, particularly to the narrative rather than events, a few days ago. So, if you read that chapter before then, you may want to go back and reread for a better feel.

For the chapter below, I must thank Google for Alistair's groan-worthy puns. However, I have no one but myself to blame for the awful templar joke.

Rose Tinted Contact Lenses - Thank you for another review! Good to know I'm still getting laughs out of people with the story.

EvilBlood - Thank you for pointing that out! You're right; the last chapter was rather cold, so I went back and edited it. Hopefully it reads a bit better now.

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 14: Restful Reparation

Alistair knew what he should do, what he _had_ to do.

Like the time in Lothering, he knew he had messed up, and he just hadn't been able to see it until he'd taken a moment to clear his mind. In this case, he'd come to realize it after they'd set up camp, eaten some food, and settled down for the evening – or morning, or afternoon; he wasn't really sure when time slipped by so easily underground. Once his nerves had calmed and the haze of battle had left his head, he was able to reflect and realize he had been, well…

A bastard. A _real_ one, not the bit about his birth he always tried to make light of.

Practically the minute they'd stepped into the Deep Roads, he had been high-strung and critical of everyone. When Leliana missed a shot with an arrow or sprung a snare by mistake, he muttered an oath under his breath. After the fifth time, Leliana snapped at him in return, asking him if he'd like to stick his hand in a claw trap and try his own luck. That got him to shut up. Then, when Oghren drunkenly stumbled and sent a pile of rocks cascading down, he growled at the dwarf to be more careful and then refused to speak to him for an hour. By the way Oghren set about bumping into everything he could afterward, the dwarf was more than happy with that result.

And, if all of that wasn't bad enough, the things he had said to Solona made him want to give himself a hard slap.

Even if it was true she couldn't do something as simple as pass a torch or come up with a non-laughable light spell, it was equally true that she was trying her best under already-trying circumstances. He had to remind himself that she had lived in the Circle Tower for most of her life, that of course she would sometimes slip and fall on the slick stones of the caves, and that what was practical outside of the Tower wasn't always the same as what was practical within.

And, really, it wasn't as though he was being very fair to her to begin with, what with shoving her into the role of leader with no warning and all. Especially during the middle of a Blight, and with no other Wardens than himself to rely on. If that wasn't stressful, he didn't know what was!

So, yes, apologies were in order. Lots of them.

But maybe not right at that moment, if the whimpers and yelps Solona made as Leliana delicately peeled ruined clothing away from melted skin were anything to go by.

"Ow-ow-_ow_!" Solona cried, twitching on the ground. "That _stings_!"

"I think you should be glad you can still feel anything," Leliana said as she cut free another layer of fabric. With a sympathetic hiss, she then pulled the flap of material away. "I have to be honest, Solona, this looks quite bad."

Solona, grimacing as the sister started slicing through another strip of cloth, waved off her concerns. "Oh, don't – ow – worry so much," she said. "As soon as we get it cleaned, I'll have it – ow – healed in no time."

"I really do mean it, Solona; this is bad," Leliana said. "Wynne could probably manage such a healing spell, but you? Your side is covered in _acidic spider venom_."

Solona sighed. "It's not _that_ covered."

Leliana pulled away another piece of cloth with a frown. "I have to disagree. Really, it's practically smothered in it!"

At that, Solona perked up a little. "Smothered?" she said, an arch grin on her lips. "Like gravy over a biscuit? Or icing over a – ow – sweet roll?"

Leliana gave a small smile and gently poked the mage in the hip, which elicited another "ow." "Stop going on about food so! It's bad enough we have to put up with Alistair's cooking."

Oh, that was a cheap shot. "Hey," Alistair whined, "my cooking isn't _that_ bad."

Leliana looked over at him with an expression of mock-surprise. "Oh! I didn't notice you were there, Alistair," she said. "You've been so quiet lately."

"That is… Um…" He hesitated, hanging his head. "Well, I'm allowed to be quiet from time to time, aren't I?"

"Certainly," the sister replied, arching an eyebrow. "It's just that, usually, you are only so quiet when you're thinking deeply about something. Would you like to share whatever it is that's on your mind?"

He swallowed, his shoulders tense, as the wheels in his head frantically turned.

He hadn't thought he'd have to say anything so soon, and he hadn't yet thought of _what_ to actually say. And what could he say anyway? What would be enough to make up for his rotten behavior and the pain he had inflicted? For all his luck, he'd probably say something like:

_I'm sorry for being such a bastard as of late. Oh, well, I _am_ a bastard, but that's not my point. I mean I've been a real heel and, oh, hey, I never noticed how well those words rhymed before, and I should really just shut up now and try again later, shouldn't I?_

Yes, he was sure an apology like that would go over very well.

And why did both Leliana and Solona have to stare at him while he tried to think of something? At least Oghren had the decency to tip his head back every so often to take a swig of whatever beastly-smelling stuff was in his hip flask.

"Or, you don't have to," Leliana slowly added. She took hold of the pan of water she had set to boil earlier over their meager campfire and set it down next to her. "I should really focus on cutting this clothing away before anything else, I suppose."

And just like that she turned back to her task, Solona resumed her wincing, Oghren belched, and the pressure dissipated.

Oh, Maker, why couldn't he just say he was sorry and get it over with already? Any grief they might give him couldn't be any worse than staying silent and mentally beating himself up about it for who-knows-how-long. Considering that he still felt rather sorry for breaking one of Lady Isolde's prized vases when he was all of nine years old, who-knows-how-long could be a very long time indeed.

"-closed like this, Alistair?"

Leliana's voice jarred him out of his thoughts, and he more or less stumbled back into the present. "I, er, what?"

He looked over to find she had finished cutting away the fabric around Solona's side, leaving it bare to the world in all its sickly, gore-strained glory. His gut twisted and churned in a way uncomfortably similar to the time-that-shall-not-be-spoken-of, and he made a note to himself to never underestimate the stomach of a chantry sister.

Or a bard. He still recalled that odd comment back in Orzammar.

What was it that he'd heard about Orlesian bards…?

"I was just asking if you could help me while I clean out the wound," Leliana explained as she laid out several lengths of bandages next to her. "I need you to hold her down so she doesn't squirm and, if she screams, to cover her mouth. This will hurt, and anything that might hear us down here and decide to visit isn't going to help."

"And I say this is unnecessary," Solona replied. "I'm not going to squirm _or_ scream. I'm not a child."

Oghren laughed. "Oh, you'll squeal all right, like a stuck nug. New kids like you always do."

"I said I'm _not_ a child," she grumbled. "And it's not like the Tower didn't have its own giant spider problems from time to time, too."

Well, Alistair wasn't ever going to be comfortable sleeping in that place again.

Leliana gave the mage a light whap on the shoulder. "Shush! You're stalling." Then she turned to Alistair and asked, more firmly this time, "Now, are you going to help or not?"

Alistair glanced between the irate mage and the even more irate lay sister. On the one hand, he risked getting a fireball thrown at him. On the other, he risked an angry Leliana. After seeing what the sister could do in a tight spot in a fight, stabbing and slashing with a ferocity he didn't know any religious person had a proper right to possess, he knew how scary such a thing was. He amended his previous note to never underestimate a chantry sister, period.

Besides, Solona couldn't really throw a fireball if he was holding her down, could she?

He shuffled forward and kneeled down next to them. "All right. What do I do?"

"I will remember this," Solona muttered.

Leliana gave her another whap before turning back to him. "Get behind her and lie down. There, now put that arm over hers – yes, just like that – and then put your leg over hers – good, good – and now you have a hand free to cover her mouth with. See?"

Oh, yes, he could see. He could see himself very nearly spooning a young woman who – oh, who was he kidding – he was more than a bit attracted to and had more than a bit of a crush on, and said spooning had nothing to do with what spooning usually entailed. If there were a picture that could say a thousand words about awkwardness alone, that would be it.

And so, in amongst all that discomfort and lingering fear that he had been wrong about the fireball thing, he did the only thing he could do:

Tell bad jokes.

"You know, lying down like this reminds me: have you heard the joke about the bed?" he said. "It hasn't been made up yet."

Solona snorted.

"And do you know what one ocean said to the other ocean?" he asked. "Nothing, they just waved."

She giggled.

"A templar with one arm in a sling approached another templar after a service," he said. "The second templar asked the first, 'Is that sling permanent?' The first replied, 'Nah, it's just templarary.'"

That time she outright laughed.

"Oh, stop it!" Leliana hissed and gave them each a whap. "Now you're _both_ stalling!"

"Hey, I got one," Oghren said with a growing grin. "So, this lad loved this gal. She was only a whiskey-maker, but he loved her still!"

Alistair and Solona snickered, and Leliana buried her face into her hands. "Oh, not you, too," she groaned.

"Oh, oh! My turn!" Solona said. "So a senior enchanter and a hen walk into a-"

Leliana chose that moment to let the first trickle of water down across Solona's side. The shock of it sent a shriek to her lips, which Alistair was quick to stifle. The next stream swirled against the deeper parts of the wound, and he was soon surprised to find himself actually _holding onto_ the bucking, screeching mage.

"Told ya," Oghren grunted.

Leliana paid him no mind and continued on in her endeavor as Alistair hung on as though for dear life. Each dribble of water brought a muffled whimper, cry, or shout from the mage until, at last, the blackish green of the venom was gone and only the raw, burnt flesh remained.

He wasn't going to be able to eat meat for at least a week after this.

Leliana took out a bottle – the smell of ground elfroot strong – and dabbed its contents onto a clean cloth. "Now to disinfect it."

At the first press of the fabric, Solona screamed like a wraith in its truly-final death throes. At the second press, she passed out, falling limp in Alistair's arms.

"Well, that makes things a lot easier," Leliana said.

With the mage as lifeless as a rag doll, Alistair no longer had to hold her down, and he helped Leliana to wrap a series of bandages around her abdomen once she had finished disinfecting. After that, Leliana told both him and Oghren to turn around while she tugged Solona out of the rest of her damaged robes and into a clean tunic. With that done, there was nothing left to do but tuck her into her bedroll and watch as the blanket slowly rose and fell with every breath.

Leliana gathered up the robes and quietly began trying to patch the gaping hole in them with what spare fabric they had. Oghren occasionally took a draught from his flask and more frequently burped. And Alistair just sat, watching the unconscious mage, too tired to think and yet unable to stop. The scenes of the earlier battle kept replaying in his mind, of the corrupted spider queen dropping from the ceiling and nearly onto the mage, the sound of her crying out as the venom hit its target, and then the sight of even more spiders flooding in from what seemed like every dark corner in the cave.

In the end, they had managed to kill all of the creatures, but not without cost. The sight of Solona lying on the ground, pale and gasping, still sent a cold shiver through him.

Why couldn't they have just left Orzammar? Why couldn't they have just forgotten the dwarven kingdom's troubles and Prince Bhelen's demands? Maybe Solona wouldn't have suffered so much if they had.

But he knew why. He knew they had to press on for the sake of the Blight. Without aid, they didn't stand a ghost of a chance against the archdemon. He knew that.

But it didn't comfort him any.

Alistair placed a hand over his forehead and sighed.

Then, turning to look at where Solona lay resting, he softly asked, "So, how bad is the injury? Will she be all right?"

Leliana contemplated this for a time as she drew a needle and thread through the material in her hand. Finally, she said, "Well, there's bad news and there's good news."

So she was going to play that game, too. He figured he could at least switch things up this time. "Give me the bad news first."

The sister's brow creased. "Even with treatment and any healing spells she can manage when she wakes up, I think the skin where she was injured will, to put it plainly, look like the face of the moon. At best."

"And the good news?"

She blinked and paused for a long moment, as though she had just remembered there was supposed to be good news at all. "Um… The moon is very pretty?"

He sighed again and went back to watching Solona. After several minutes, he closed his eyes with a groan.

Then, before he could think better of it, he said, "I'm sorry." He continued, so quickly the words nearly tumbled over one another, "I'm sorry, Leliana, for acting like an ass and criticizing you at every turn. I've been an idiot. And I'm sorry to you, too, Oghren." He opened his eyes and looked down at the mage. "And I would apologize to Solona as well, except I don't think she can hear me right now."

After a long moment, Leliana replied, "I understand, Alistair. And I'm glad you recognized it and apologized. But may I suggest something?"

He bit down on his lip and nodded.

"As silly as this may sound in the Deep Roads," she said, "would you try to… relax a little? We're all doing our best, and we need to work as a team if we're all going to make it out of here alive and whole."

"I know," he said with a sigh. "I know you've all been doing your best. I know I'm to blame for my behavior, no one else."

"You've also been doing your best, Alistair," she softly said. "This entire affair in Orzammar has been a trying ordeal. Everyone is on edge, to be honest."

He looked over at her and, seeing her smile, returned it.

"And may I suggest one more thing?" she asked.

He nodded.

"We're all in this together. You're not alone. Don't forget that."

Oh, no, he wasn't crying, absolutely not. It was just a bit of… dirt in his eye. Or an arrow. Or something, because he most definitely _wasn't_ crying.

"Thank you, Leliana," he said and wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. "Really, thank you."

Then they looked over at Oghren for his reaction.

Only to find the dwarf had passed out and started drooling over himself. If the length of spittle down his beard was anything to go by, said passing out and drooling had happened some time ago as well.

"Well, that ruined the moment," Alistair muttered.

Leliana laughed. "You should get some rest, too, Alistair. I'll keep watch for a few hours."

There was no room for argument in his exhausted, aching body, so he did so without complaint. Or, rather, he tried, but his mind, once more, couldn't shut up.

No matter how tightly he closed his eyes or how deeply he buried himself under the blanket, his worries returned with a vengeance. He couldn't stop thinking about how far they were in the Deep Roads, how much further they had left to go, how the others in Orzammar were faring against possible assassins and rebels, how Solona would have to live with that awful scar stretched across her side for the rest of her life. Again and again, the thoughts spun through his mind.

A couple hours passed in this manner, and eventually Solona woke and sat up with a hiss of pain.

"Go lie back down, Solona," Leliana whispered. "You'll need the energy to recover."

"I'm not tired," Solona replied. "I just feel sore, that's all."

The lay sister sighed, too tired herself to reason with the mage. "Oh, very well. Would you like to sit with me by the fire? It's a bit warmer over here."

Alistair listened as Solona slipped out of the covers and over to Leliana. They talked in voices too quiet for him to make anything out, and soon his thoughts drowned out the noise with their own clamor. Deep Roads, Blight, darkspawn, spiders, Orzammar, what Maker-forsaken evil was in Oghren's canteen…

He did notice, however, when Leliana at last stood and went to lie down in her own bedroll. He waited a few more moments before he pretended to yawn and stretch-

"Stop it; you're not fooling anyone," Solona said, her tone light despite the accusation. "You've been awake this entire time." Under her breath, she added, "You're as bad as Anders."

It had been a quiet comment, so softly spoken Alistair was sure he wouldn't have heard it if not for the echoing cavern walls. It hadn't been meant for him, but he still couldn't help the twinge of curiosity – and still a little jealousy – curling at the back of his skull.

He ignored it. For now.

"All right, you got me," he said, sitting up with a chuckle. He gave a helpless shrug. "I can't sleep."

"I don't blame you," she replied, stiffly turning to face him. Though her eyes were tired and her hair a sweaty mess, her expression was still open and friendly, and the sight of it lightened his heart a little. That was, until she said, "It's a wonder anyone could sleep here at all. This place is, well, _brrrrr_, you know? Creepy."

"I honestly wish I'd never gotten a chance to know," he said. He looked down, his jaw clenched, as a new wave of despair suddenly washed over him. "To think we'll have to come here for our Calling in thirty years, maybe less, if we even survive the war and the Blight, and-"

"You think too much," Solona interrupted. She patted the spot next to her and said, "Come here, and bring that blanket with you. I'm afraid I don't know any sleep spells, but we can try something else."

He looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. "Wha-"

"Come. Here."

With a sigh, he got up and dragged himself over to the mage.

"Now sit down right there." He did. "Now wrap yourself in the blanket." He did. "Now lean over this way." He did. "Keep leaning." He did. "A bit more." He-

"No, _wait_," he protested, his face hot. He began pushing himself back up. "I'm putting my head in your-"

She took hold of his shoulder and gently pushed him back down. His flush grew worse as his cheek made contact with her thigh. It was covered by her tunic, but _still_. "Lap? Yes, you are," she said with a laugh. "Think of it as your pillow. And, since your head is too full of woe, I'm going to make it full of drivel."

She picked up the book she had set next to her and opened it to the first page.

"You're going to read me a _bedtime story_?" he asked, incredulous. And a little squeaky.

"Not quite."

He peered up and saw the words "Stone for Sword" on the cover. Oh, _that_ book.

"You don't actually read that for its content, do you?" he asked.

"Mm. No, I just find it a good sleep aid," she said. "And the pictures are pretty."

He almost laughed at that, this sudden and unexpected similarity between them, until one thought in particular nearly knocked itself out of his skull in its insistence. "Solona," he said, "I need to talk to you."

She hesitated a moment. "About what?"

"About… About earlier," he said. He swallowed thickly. "I've been awful to you lately, and I want to apologize. Especially the jab about your, ah, lighting spell; that was uncalled for. And really just all of my behavior as of late. I've been a fool."

She looked down and gave him a small smile. "It's all right. I understand," she replied. She twisted a page of the book between her thumb and forefinger. "It's a pretty silly spell, I know."

"But it's been so useful," he protested.

"It's still silly."

"Well… yes," he reluctantly agreed after a moment. "I guess I can't really argue with that."

"All the same, thank you for the apology," she said. "And I am sorry about dropping the torches."

"As you've said already," he replied with a huff and a grin.

"Now, about your 'bedtime story'-"

Then, before he could bite it back, another thought wormed its way out of his mouth: "So, who's this 'Anders' you mentioned?"

She frowned deeply enough to wrinkle her chin. He almost expected her not to say anything, as was her way with an unpleasant question, when she abruptly answered, "No one you need to worry about."

"Is he a fellow mage?" he inquired with a raised brow. "Is he the healer you had been talking about earlier, before we reached the Tower?"

She sighed. "Yes," she replied and then, after a moment, added, "And a friend."

He paused, considering. "Well, it sounds like we would have got on quite nicely."

She smiled. "Maybe." She poked him in the forehead. "Now, do you want me to read this to you or not?"

He smiled back. "Please."

And so she did, in a gentle, quiet voice that calmed his nerves. She had a slight accent, he realized. Subtle enough that in normal conversation he had never noticed, but here in the darkness and silence of the Deep Roads it grew apparent. It had a warm, rolling feeling to it, like the waves of a calm sea on a clear day.

He wondered where she had gotten such an accent. From the Circle Tower – a result of being tightly locked up day and night – or wherever she had lived before then?

The thought of Solona running and playing outside in the sun as a child, free and unfettered from magic or duty, brought a sudden warmth to his chest.

He focused on her voice, trying to place the accent, but nothing came to him. Then he tried to pay attention to her words, just to see if he could make any sense of the text, but his mind soon grew too lethargic to keep up. After a while, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the fire, the soft, linen-covered thigh against his cheek, and the faint, sweet scent of carnations and earth. His ears caught something about _intersecting arrays_ and _prism utilization_, and he heard a drop of water land somewhere far off in the caves like a dream.

And then he nodded off to sleep.


	15. Winsome Winter Woes

Author's Notes: Well, so much for keeping a regular update schedule. Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter out, everyone! For some reason, it just wouldn't come out a way I liked, and I had to keep rewriting it. A word of warning: This chapter's a fair bit heavier and fluffier than most of the others, but hopefully not too much so. It's also quite long.

Janet - Wow! Thank you for such a kind review. I'm really glad you're enjoying the story; it's great to know I'm making people laugh.

EvilBlood - Aww, I'm glad you liked it. I was a little worried that part was too much.

Schala00neg - Thanks! That's great to hear you're enjoying it. With how dark the game and a lot of the fan-fiction out there can get, I thought it would be a fun challenge to come up with more of a funny, feel-good story.

Everyone else, thank you for following along and continuing to read! I hope you enjoy the chapter. Also, from here on out, I think I'll start replying to reviews via private messaging where I can, just so I can give people quicker responses.

Chapter 15: Winsome Winter Woes

Dawn was breaking when they stepped outside the gates of Orzammar and into the thin mountain air for the first time in days. Light rolled across the clouds over the eastern crags like a robin slowly stretching out its wings, and above them the stars began to wink out one by one. A gentle breeze whispered through the sparse trees around them, picking up a sprinkling of the snow that had fallen the night before and dusting their boots in white.

Though the autumnal equinox had been but two weeks ago, winter did not wait in the high slopes of the Frostback Mountains. They would need to move – and fast – if they were to reach the safety of the lowlands before a storm hit.

But at least they were moving, and south no less. With the worst of the climb behind them, it would be quick traveling to Redcliffe. Fortune upon fortune, a passing merchant – perhaps the last of the year in these parts – had told Alistair the latest news: Yes, Arl Eamon remained ill, and no cure had yet been found, but things at least did not look to be getting worse. They still had time, and the comfort of that time was immeasurable to him, as was Solona's soft hand upon his shoulder when he heard, telling him without words that she was there if he needed her.

And they needed all the fortune they could get, after what had happened in the Deep Roads. Caridin's parting words hung upon his mind like a chain of sorrow, as did the roaring of the archdemon, the monstrous broodmother, the anvil scattered upon the ground, and the sight of Branka's bloodless hands, the only parts of her that hadn't been slashed to ribbons or burnt to a crisp.

After that final battle in the Deep Roads, Solona had seemed to lose herself for a while. When Caridin asked her what she would have as a boon, she had turned to Oghren and asked him instead, in a voice so faint and toneless it sounded as though she spoke from a dream. But Oghren remembered what they had come for, and a crown for the king of their choice soon came to rest in the mage's lax hands.

Then Caridin had said, "You have my eternal thanks, stranger. Atrast nal tunsha – may you always find your way in the dark," and cast himself into the lava below.

Solona had stared down into that molten abyss for a long while, as Oghren whispered something to Branka's unhearing ears one last time and then buried her best as he could under a pile of stones. Near the entrance to the cavern, they took a copy of the golem registry upon a roll of paper so that Shale and those of the Shaperate could study it as they wished. Then they left and did not look back.

Though joy surrounded them upon their return and the crowning of Prince Bhelen, it seemed to not quite touch Alistair, Leliana, Oghren, and Solona, as if they carried over themselves a cloak of the Deep Roads' damp stillness that blocked out everything else. The impending execution of Lord Harrowmont – something they had never intended – did not help matters any. When Bhelen invited them to stay for a few days more to enjoy the celebrations, they had declined.

Only to stay anyway when Shale asked they return to the Deep Roads in search of its past, a request that, after a shuddering sigh, Solona nodded to.

Alistair still felt rather bitter that she had simply left him in Orzammar "to recover," as she had later explained, without asking. Instead, she had taken Sten and Zevran to accompany her and the golem, and his complaining about it to everyone else had gotten him nowhere.

Especially Morrigan, who had snippily replied, "You? You gripe about that – to _me_? Might I remind you that I have been left behind on every single one of these 'quests,' with nothing to do but make poultices and potions? If you are complaining after only once, then surely I have a right to complain about all the times I have. Here, let me start with the first…"

He wasn't quite sure why he had gone to her at all.

Thankfully, their exploration only took a day, and though Solona retained her somber reserve, their return meant they could at last leave after a night of preparation and rest. It was a prospect most eagerly anticipated by all in their group, and more than a few of them sighed in relief when they finally walked out of the city.

Oghren, however, took one bleary look up at the lightening sky and then bent over and groaned as though he were going to vomit.

"Do you need a moment, Oghren?" Solona asked.

"Nah, I… I'm fine," the dwarf replied. "It's just a sodding _lot_, you know?"

She nodded sympathetically, and they waited several minutes anyway before continuing on. About a mile down the pass, they rejoined Bodahn and Sandal where they had left them. After exchanging a few words to see how the two had fared all this time and hitching the cart up to the horse once more, they kept on in their journey.

The more distance they put between them and Orzammar, the more their spirits cheered and the lingering darkness in their thoughts faded away like a bad dream. Before long, Zevran's teasing banter peppered the air, dancing from one target to another, and Leliana started singing about a knight-errant. Between those sounds and the familiar snuffling of the horse behind him, Alistair could almost believe none of it had happened.

Except the memories still felt too sharp, too unforgiving, to be anything but very, very real.

Also, Solona wouldn't quit poking her new scar.

"Stop that right this moment, young lady," Wynne admonished. "It needs time to fully heal, and you're only making it worse."

Regardless, Solono rubbed her side again through the thick layers of her clothing. "But it feels so _strange_. It's all kind of numb and warm."

Wynne marched up to her and forcibly pulled the offending hand away. "That is to be expected. The nerves in your skin were damaged, as were the vessels and glands there that help to regulate your temperature. So _stop touching it_."

Solona pulled her other hand away with a muttered, "Yes, senior enchanter."

Wynne gave an exasperated sigh. "I only tell you for your own good, Solona. You know that."

"Yes, senior enchanter."

Wynne cut her a sharp look. "If you are going to act like that, I will go talk with someone else, someone who will appreciate a nice, thoughtful exchange. Leliana, perhaps? Or maybe Sten?"

"Yes, senior enchanter."

The older woman scowled and stomped away to the front of their procession, although she did not engage the lay sister or the qunari in conversation. Instead, she fussed to herself, muttering under her breath unkind things about "the attitudes of young people these days." Behind her, Solona grinned.

And then began prodding her side again.

Alistair stifled a snicker with a hand and shook his head.

He was amazed that, despite all that had happened in just the past week, she could still come back smiling and playful like her usual self. She was quieter, true, but they all were right then. Everyone's focus was on getting away from the dwarven city and to their next destination, and there was nothing wrong with that.

But the image of Solona standing upon the lip of the ravine, staring down and far away, flashed in his mind once more.

He shook his head again, as if such a simple motion could dislodge the clinging memory. As nice as it was to have her beaming and laughing at his jokes once more, making everything seem fine even as despair tried to hem them in, it seemed amiss in a way. He felt like he wasn't seeing something important, some part of her that she always nudged out of sight so as not to bother anyone with it.

But how could he lure that part out? How could he get her to confess her thoughts or concerns to him, when she wouldn't even admit to the nightmares or the obvious fact that, yes, burning alive from acidic venom actually _hurt_? By the Blight, it was like trying to get a table to talk about its feelings!

He knew, rationally, that he shouldn't be so distraught. Her thoughts were her own, and he had no inherent right to know them. If she didn't want to share them, then there was nothing more he could do.

But, still, her feelings mattered to him. Even though his more sensible parts warningly whispered "duty" and "fraternization," he knew he liked her as more than a friend, and he also longed to be more than a friend to her. He wanted to be a part of her life in some way no one else had, some little niche he could wiggle his way into and fill to brighten her days. He wanted to smooth away the worried lines around her mouth when she frowned, to kiss away the growing darkness of sleepless nights around her eyes, to hold her close in the bleak nights and dreams to let her know she wasn't alone.

Oh, Maker, he was lost to this, wasn't he?

It also didn't help any that merely trying to think about it sent his mind spinning. Just how many "wants" had he used in those last few sentences?

Alistair tried to remind himself that he didn't always get what he wanted. In fact, he rarely had.

He had wanted parents who loved and looked after him, patting his shoulder when he did well and holding him when he was sad. He had wanted to stay in Redcliffe with his adoptive father Arl Eamon, and he had wanted for Lady Isolde to go stick her head in a cow's rear end – though he had eventually rescinded that one on part of the cow's feelings. He had wanted blue skies and green fields, rather than the Denerim chantry's sooty ceiling and cold stone floors. And, fine, he wasn't afraid to admit it: he had always wanted the last cookie, too.

But this – what he felt for Solona? What he hoped for with her? This he _wanted_. Wanted like air, wanted like sunlight against his skin, wanted like a cool breeze on a hot summer day and the warmth of a fire on a freezing winter night.

He would get her alone, and they _would_ talk.

And… even if she didn't want him back, he thought, that would be all right. At least he would know. And at least she would know that he was there for her, even if as nothing more than a friend.

Unfortunately, however, alone was easier said than done. That night at camp, it felt as though any sense of privacy couldn't have been further off. More than a few of their party kept staring, peering, or glancing at the young mage, and Alistair would have included "leering" in that list, if not for the fact that even Zevran was acting strangely.

Alistair thought he first noticed it in Orzammar. A few, lingering narrow-eyed stares at the mage when the elf seemed to think no one was looking. Then, more frequently once they were out and focused on the road, he regarded her with an odd earnestness in his expression and a small, considering frown on his face. Every time someone glanced at him, he would, like slipping on a mask, grin and begin oozing charm and sexual innuendos as usual. Then, once the person looked away, he would stare at the mage again and that strange, contemplative appearance would return.

Whatever Zevran was thinking, he didn't do a very good job of hiding the fact that he was thinking at all. The memory of the elf's assassination attempt surfaced in Alistair's mind, bringing a scowl to his face. It hadn't escaped him how poorly-planned the encounter had been, with the Antivan Crow front and center, as if the man had _wanted_ to die.

Either Zevran was the worst assassin he knew – and he admittedly didn't know many, but still – or he had something more up his sleeve, something he couldn't predict.

And, if it involved Solona… Alistair felt his chest tighten. He wouldn't – _couldn't_ – let anything happen to her.

Then Zevran caught sight of Alistair's scrutiny. The elf arched an eyebrow at him and then, with a lascivious smirk, dragged the tip of his tongue across his lower lip.

Though Alistair felt a rush of heat hit his cheeks, he steadily held the elf's gaze. He narrowed his eyes at the man as he tried to silently convey how very _bad_ of an idea it would be to act on whatever he was scheming up.

Zevran simply let the loose collar of his shirt slip down further with a shrug. Then, after wetting a fingertip in his mouth, he started drawing slow, abstract patterns over his chest, across his ribs, and gradually nearing the edge of a-

Alistair quickly turned away, his face thoroughly red.

He made a note to himself to never challenge Zevran to a staring contest. He'd never win, and he'd always come away feeling dirty in a manner no bath could wash off.

But, turning away at least turned his attention away from his burning embarrassment. Instead, it turned it over to the others in their group and each of their odd behaviors.

Morrigan, for example. For once, the witch wasn't sitting in her corner of the world with her nose stuck in the black grimoire she'd had since they left the Circle Tower. This evening, she stood nearby, idly caressing the filigree of a golden mirror – a gift from Solona earlier that day – though, even more strangely, she didn't look into it. She gazed at the designs on the back and occasionally glanced over at the young mage, with a look in her tawny eyes that almost made them soft.

Her, _soft_? He had to have been seeing things.

Leliana was better, though not by much. She had ceased to sing or chat with anyone who would listen, but now she paced incessantly. Every so often she stopped and looked at Solona with her mouth slightly open, as if she were about to say something. Then she snapped her jaw shut and resumed her wandering.

Even Shale was uncharacteristically quiet. Usually at dinner, she – and he still could hardly believe it _was_ a "she" or had been at any point – complained of how bizarre she found the act of organic beings eating other organic beings, but this time she had said nothing. Instead, she carefully rolled the precious stones Solona had given her between her thick, rock fingers and at times studied their glinting colors in the firelight. At other times, she simply studied Solona.

The words left unsaid could fill a book. And maybe even a highly-anticipated sequel.

At least everyone else still seemed pretty normal. After dinner, the hound had promptly flopped down next to the crackling flame of the campfire and began gnawing on a fresh bone. Wynne sat nearby, quietly reading one of her books with a cup of red wine in hand. Bodahn and Sandal prepared the horse for the night and took stock of their inventory. Oghren had, predictably, passed out some time ago after finding their store of hard liquor. Honestly, Alistair hadn't even known they _had_ any alcohol, until the dwarf suddenly hooted in delight and came stumbling out from behind a tent chugging the stuff.

And Sten, of course, was Sten.

"So, you are thinking of renaming the dog 'Captain,'" the giant ascertained.

"Yes, well, it's a lot better than Captain _Cuddles_," Alistair replied.

The qunari looked up from the small painting he held in his hand and slid his gaze around to each of the camp's occupants, silently weighing and appraising. At last, he said, "Captain is suitable," and then turned back to the piece of artwork.

Which was about the most reaction Alistair had gotten from anyone at the news. The rest had either ignored him or given him the barest of nods, and he hadn't bothered with the snoring dwarf.

And then, just as he was walking away feeling a little pleased with himself, he realized what Sten had implied by his comment.

A _dog_ was _not_ a better second-in-command than him!

Alistair nearly shot a glare back at the qunari, when Solona chose that moment to get up and walk away from the campfire.

His hopes shot up, and he picked up his pace towards her. She was edging around the fire, apparently heading in the direction of the deeper parts of the forest. Perhaps she was about to go collect more firewood, he thought, or do a short patrol of the surrounding area. Really, he would settle for any chance to talk to her in private. He raised a hand towards her, about to call her name and ask if he could join.

Only to find himself half-stumbling to a dead stop when she slipped into her tent and tugged the opening closed.

Andraste's flaming sword, would nothing go his way this night?

With an irritated sigh, he turned around, threw the flaps of his own tent aside, and crawled within. If he couldn't get a moment alone with Solona, then at least he could have a moment alone with his thoughts.

Or to sleep. Sleep was good, too.

Except even that was hard-won, nightmares of the Deep Roads and the archdemon roiling in his mind and making him toss and turn. Eventually, he gave up and listened to the popping of the campfire and Leliana's quiet humming as she kept watch. They were pleasant sounds, ones he could almost nod off to if he didn't already know what sorts of dreams awaited him. He resolutely fought off the temptation of sleeping again so soon.

To help, he took out the small box he'd once used for his flint and steel. The cover slipped off with hardly a sound, revealing within the rose he'd meticulously been caring for all these months. He gently plucked it from its container and pressed it upon his cheek, savoring the silky softness of the petals and the fragrance that somehow still lingered.

He was a little embarrassed to admit he had been keeping the flower alive by periodically soaking it in one of their rejuvenation draughts. Though it came out damp and slick, a few gentle, drying pats from his shirt made it look as though he had just plucked it.

He didn't have to tell Solona that when he gave it to her, did he?

And he was quite certain it would be a "when," though he wasn't sure "when" would actually _be_. He didn't even know what to say!

_Solona, I present this rose to you as a token of my deepest and sincerest appreciation for-_

No, too formal.

_Roses are red; violets are blue. I've never met someone quite like you._

No, too cheesy.

And what if she didn't even know what a rose was or what one meant? Judging by the way tree bark could fascinate her, he thought it a safe assumption no one had ever given her a lesson or two on horticulture in the Tower beyond just crushing them in a mortar and using them in a potion. As pressed as they were now, they hadn't exactly taken the time to stop and smell the flowers either.

Maker, how was he going to explain both the rose and his feelings for her? He could hardly imagine getting through the latter without getting his tongue tied in fifteen different ways!

He nearly let out a groan, but then he heard the flaps of the tent next to his – Solona's – rustle and slide open across the ground. He held his breath instead, listening as she, like an echo of the time in the Deep Roads, came to rest next to the fire, near Leliana. The two of them exchanged hushed words for a while, and he frowned when, once again, he couldn't make them out.

Then Leliana rose and went to her tent, leaving Solona to take over the watch. He wondered at this, for he knew she hadn't been assigned any periods tonight, on account of the strain of the past days and her wound. Nightmares, then?

As quiet as a mouse and with rose in hand, he got to his knees and crept over till he could peek out through the small slit of his tent's entrance.

The young mage sat upon the ground, a blanket drawn about her up to her ears. Her breaths came out in small, white puffs in the chilled midnight air, and every so often she turned and watched them float away. Once, she took off a ring from her finger and slowly ran a knuckle against its outer rim. Then she clenched it in one hand as she pressed the other to her eyes.

Alistair's brow creased in concern, and he gently set the rose aside. He watched for a while longer, hoping he might gain some clue as to the source of her distress.

But she pulled the hand away and slipped the ring back on. He frowned, nearly thinking he had lost his chance, when, under the fabric of the coverlet, he spied movement. She was running a hand against her scarred side again, though more delicately than the other times. After a few passes, the hand came to an abrupt stop and gripped the flesh below it in a deep, searching grasp.

Then she released her hold with a heavy sigh. "It was only to be expected, Solona," she muttered to herself. "It would've happened sooner or later. And it's not like it matters much anyway. I'm just a mage who sets things on fire and casts crummy spells."

Before he could stop himself, Alistair burst out of his tent and said, "Don't you dare believe that!"

Solona's head whipped around to face him, her eyes wide and her face flushed.

Well, so much for being subtle.

In a quieter voice, he forged on: "You're not 'just a mage,' Solona. You're brave, funny, kind, and a lot smarter than I give you credit for, and you're my… my…" He fumbled for the right word in amongst the tangle of his feelings right then. "_Friend_. And you-"

"_You_ keep faking that you're asleep so you can eavesdrop!" she interrupted with a glare. "Honestly, Alistair, should I-"

"_I_ have to keep faking because you won't tell me anything," he countered, as his own sense of outrage flared up. "And it's-"

"Not your business," she sourly finished. "It's in the past, and-"

"You're still hurting from it, as much as you try to cover it up-"

"For your sake, for everyone's sake! We're dealing with bigger things than my stupid little problems-"

"But that doesn't mean you can't talk with anyone about them," Alistair said, "that you can't talk with _me_ about them. And they're not stupid or little. They're important – _you're_ important – and you deserve love and compassion, same as anyone else."

Solona looked away, suddenly silent, and sharply tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

He got to his feet and cautiously approached her. When she didn't bolt or shoot magic at him, he sat down next to her, his eyes sad as he watched her turn away from him. Even though he knew he was pushing, her rejection still hurt.

He also wished he had thought to bring his own blanket with him. Maker's breath, it was freezing out!

"You can trust me, Solona. You can tell me anything," he tried again, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm here for you, and I-"

He pulled his hand away with a surprised yelp. Then he put it back on in wonder, as she suddenly laughed and then looked at him again, this time with a sheepish smile.

"You're using the laundry-drying spell to keep yourself warm, aren't you," he stated more than asked.

"It's a milder version, so I don't burn," she said.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Oh, now that's unfair. You're complaining about being a mage, and you get handy-dandy tricks like this."

"Hey, I was stuck in a tower most of my life, thank you very much," she protested. "They didn't exactly come free."

He pulled at the corner of the cloth. "That's it. You're sharing."

She stared at him. "What?"

He yanked this time. "You're sharing. Now open up and let me in."

"No!" she said, tightening her hold with a grin. "You'll let all the heat out. Besides, you should've brought your own blanket."

He started peeling away her grip. "I didn't exactly think ahead, all right? And mine isn't self-heating."

"Well, isn't that just too bad- Hey! Cold feet! _Cold feet!_"

She continued to shriek, half-serious and half-laughing, as he wedged his way inside behind her. Taking the corners of the blanket in hand, he then wrapped his arms around her so the fabric enfolded them completely.

"It's your fault for not letting me in sooner," he said, though without any real conviction.

She opened her mouth, about to object, when a boot came flying out of Morrigan's camp and nearly hit Alistair in the shoulder. A grumbling, half-muffled yell of, "Get a room!" followed after.

Solona and Alistair stared at each other for a long moment, and the next they burst out laughing.

The other boot sailed over Solona's head.

This time they stifled their mirth, as difficult as it was, in case Morrigan planned to throw her tent at them next.

In time, their laughter died down to chuckles, and they relaxed against one another with a sigh. Alistair smiled down at the mage in his arms, his heart light and feeling truly young for the first time in weeks, if not months. This close, he could smell her, as he had in the Deep Roads that once: carnations and earth freshly tilled and warm from the sun. He could imagine falling asleep to that scent, then waking up curled around it in the morning.

He breathed it in deeply but softly, hoping she wouldn't notice. He really didn't want her thinking he had some weird smell fetish.

"Ah, that was fun," Solona said, rubbing a tear from the corner of her eye with the heel of her palm.

She let the words linger till they returned to the quiet of the night, and he sighed in response, content in the unexpected peace.

Then, with a sudden shake of her shoulders, she looked down and said, "I'm sorry, Alistair. I shouldn't have reacted so harshly. I understand you're just worried."

Alistair's smile slipped away, and he gave her a gentle hug. Well, more of a hug, considering they were already quite wrapped around one other underneath the blanket. "It's all right," he said. "And I should apologize as well; you're right that I can get to be a bit of a, well, worrywart."

"And a busybody," she added.

He ran a hand along the back of his neck with a small chuckle. "Right. That, too."

She laughed again, though more quietly this time. "Fine. You're forgiven. _Charmer_."

He rubbed his chin into the crown of her head – and, yes, the smell of carnations was stronger there, perhaps from the soap she used – and said, "Mm. Guilty as charged."

For a while, they said nothing else, each enjoying the other's company and the warmth.

Alistair made another note to himself, this one to say that cuddling with Solona under a blanket was a _very_ good idea indeed, particularly on a cold night such as this. With the chill kept at bay and the ever-lurking loneliness pushed aside, he had never felt so comfortable. The only thing that could have made it even better was a bigger blanket, so he didn't have to keep tugging at the edges of theirs to keep it closed. And a five-course meal with ham, steak, cheese, and dessert. And feathered beds. And a roof over their heads. And- He decided to stop there, lest he be tempted to actually _return_ to Orzammar.

Then he realized something: "Hey, where's Shale? She usually would have said we were disgusting or leaking fluids or something like that by now."

Solona leaned back against him. "Leliana told me she left about an hour ago to check the area for any dangers."

He gave a lazy blink. "Oh, good idea." He scratched his chin against the mage's head again. After a moment of consideration, he murmured, "It's all right, if you're not ready to tell me yet."

"Tell you what?" she yawned.

_Your past. Your thoughts. Your hopes, fears, everything_, he wanted to say, but he stamped on the desire. "Anything, really," he said. "I just… Watching you out here all alone, I wanted to make sure you knew that I'm here and willing to listen, whenever you want. You've been doing it for me with Duncan and the Blight and everything else, and…" _And I want to be so much more to you_. He pushed down the swell of emotion. "And it's only fair that I do the same."

She didn't answer for a long time, and, from his position, he couldn't make out the expression on her face. He gave an internal sigh as he resigned himself to the very real possibility that she wouldn't let him in after all, or at least not for that night.

Then she said, "Would you believe that I sometimes miss it? The Circle Tower, I mean."

He sputtered in shock. "_What?_ But I thought you- I mean, Morrigan is always going on about independence this and free will that, and, well-"

She gave a small laugh and twisted a lock of her dark hair between her fingers. "I'm not saying I'd like to go back and throw away the key!"

Alistair let out a shaky breath as the growing tenseness between his shoulder blades, which he hadn't even been aware of until then, suddenly rolled away. "Good," he said. "That's… good."

But… Going _back_ to the Circle Tower? He honestly hadn't thought much about it. Sure, maybe the odd trip or two to say hello, catch up on the latest gossip, see how the books and magical artifacts were doing, whatever it was that mages did for fun there. But Solona was a Grey Warden now. Which meant fighting darkspawn and beasties and various other nasty things, and she seemed to enjoy setting them all aflame well enough. Sure, Wynne treated her like she was still a student, but that didn't mean she'd actually end up being forced to go back after all of this. Right?

There weren't receipts of Grey Warden conscriptions, were there?

He could imagine it: _Recruited: One mage from the Circle Tower. No, they _cannot_ have her back._

He blinked when he realized that Solona had begun speaking again: "True, it had its bad points, to say the least." She paused, reminiscing, and Alistair knew better to simply wait. He was rewarded for his patience when she twisted around – well, what little she could – to look up at him with a smile. "But there were good times, too."

He smiled encouragingly back. "Oh? Like what?"

"Well, aside from the real food and beds, I assume?" she asked.

He laughed. "Yes, aside from that! Don't remind me, please."

She giggled in return and then, after a moment, tilted her head a little in thought. "I guess I most miss those I knew there. I didn't have many friends, but there were still a lot of good people," she said, her voice soft and quiet in the still air of night. Then she suddenly pressed her lips into a thin scowl. "Though I did get teased a lot for being the 'lifetime local' for living there so long." After a moment, though, her expression turned sad and she sighed. "So many of them died, or were wounded or are missing…"

Alistair gently tightened his arms around her.

Solona laid her head back against his shoulder. "Sometimes it seems like only yesterday that I was at the Tower, that I hadn't gone through my Harrowing yet, or that… well…" She trailed off, letting the sentence dry up in the cold air.

There it was again, that niggling little sense that told him he was missing some part of the story, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

Eventually, she sighed again and wrapped her arms around him. "I'm glad you're here, Alistair," she said. "Really, I am."

His chest warmed as his heart struck a rapid beat against his ribs, and he felt a rush of heat flood his face. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. Maker, he wasn't going to cry again like the time in the Deep Roads, was he? He didn't want to ruin the moment somehow.

He wound a hand through her hair and eased her head into the crook of his neck, hoping she wouldn't notice if he did start to weep a little. "I'm glad, too," he replied.

_Very_ glad, he knew. Gladder, perhaps, than she had any idea of. _Soon_, he told himself; he'd tell her soon.

Suddenly, she asked, "You remembered when you once mentioned turning people into newts?"

A trickle of dread wormed its way up his neck. "Oh, no, you haven't _actually_…"

"No!" She laughed. "I just remembered – out of the blue, really – that one time Anders and I managed to sneak one into a templar's glass of water once," she said, a wistful note in her voice. "We couldn't have been more than twelve years old. It'd been raining something awful all day outside, and we were so restless."

Alistair snorted in amusement. "Poor newt."

"Oh, very!" She grinned widely, her nose wrinkling a little. "I think Anders said he'd found it near the Tower entrance," she went on. "The creature must have wandered inside for shelter or by mistake. We snuck over with it to the dining hall, where the templars were having their midday meal. There, we slipped the poor thing into a serving jar of water and then hid. Not long after, one of the kitchen hands took the jar out to the table, and, a few minutes later, there was such a ruckus!" She laughed and fondly shook her head. "Who knew a bunch of big templars could get so shaken up about something so small?"

He put on a pout, resisting the urge to laugh along with her at the thought of such a scene. "Hey, now, not all templars are that faint-hearted!" he protested.

She playfully poked him in the chest. "All right, all right, Ser Brave Templar; I know _you_ aren't."

"Ser Brave _Former_ Templar," he corrected with a chuckle.

"All right, got it!" She paused again before saying, more uncertainly, "Actually, now that I remember, I don't think they ever caught us for that one." She leaned back to look up into his eyes, though any pretended fear was negated by the smirk on her lips. "Promise that you won't mention that bit to the Knight-Commander if we ever go back?"

He laughed. "Now who's the scared one?"

She poked him once more, a little more harshly than last. "Oh! Come on then, Ser Brave _Former_ Templar, surely you've got a childhood story of your own to tell?"

He grinned. "Well, all right, I think have a tale or two I could share, Little Scared Mage…"

She poked him again, but he only laughed.

They talked late into the night, exchanging gaffes and misadventures as they tried – and often failed – to cover up their mirth. By the time Solona finally dozed off against Alistair's chest, two of Morrigan's belts and several empty jars littered the ground around them, a result of the witch's further valiant efforts. When Wynne came out to take the next watch, she gave the two of them a teasing smile but said nothing more, not even to tell them to get back to their beds. Which was just as well, because he wasn't planning on moving anytime soon.

As Wynne settled down on the other side of the fire and began reading one of her books, Alistair yawned. He could feel sleep setting in on him again, and he knew in a few minutes it wouldn't take "no" for an answer any longer, especially not with a nice, lovely-smelling mage cuddled up against him. Once he was sure the senior enchanter had truly started reading – not just pretending to read by staring at a page for a while – he leaned over and whispered in Solona's ear:

"Whatever scars you may bear, inside or out, you're still beautiful to me."

Also:

"I'm renaming the dog 'Captain.' Hope you don't mind."

-x-x-

Author's Notes: Hey, guess what movie I got Solona and Anders' little "prank" from! Hint: It starts with an "m". :D


	16. Rosy Relations

Author's Notes: Sorry about the wait again; here's another rather long chapter! Man, I really need to work on cutting down the length on these things.

jess - I'm trying to stick to a lighter, more feel-good theme, so I don't think you need to worry about sad endings with this story. I'll leave the angst and tragedy to other, more capable people to write. Thanks for the review!

Everyone else, thanks for still following along! I hope you enjoy the following chapter. Oh, and beware: fluff, romance, and relationship advice from Oghren lies ahead! You'd better take a Sten along to ward it off with dry humor and smart-ass comments.

Chapter 16: Rosy Relations

Alistair decided he would give Solona the rose tomorrow.

But "tomorrow," as it turned out, held darkspawn on the road as well as a particularly vicious ogre that managed to grab hold of him and, if not for a well-timed ice spell, would have given him a thorough thrashing. Luckily for him, he came away with only some cuts, bruises, and sore ribs; small injuries that Wynne easily healed. Regardless, the encounter left them all drained of energy, and camp was more or less an affair of raising tents and then falling into them to sleep.

The next day, he thought. Surely the next day.

That day, however, presented them with the dilemma of a collapsed bridge. They spent two hours searching and testing the rocky gorge for a place to cross, one where the freezing water was shallow enough to get a good foothold and the sides sloped evenly to allow passage for the cart and horse. Though they found several locations where a person could wade through without issue, only one would work for a wagon. Even then, they were forced to unload and carry over the gear and chests first, lest the additional weight proved too much of a strain and cracked one of the wheels. Which would have been an even worse predicament, considering the nearest farmstead still rested over thirty miles away and down the twisting mountain road.

By the time they finished, the sun was just grazing the tips of the highest peaks, but many in the group were too tired to go on. They set up camp in a clearing off the road and reheated the last of the leftovers for their evening meal. They would need to make a fresh meal the next evening and, Alistair noted with a grimace, it was his turn to do so.

Fortunately, they still had a lot of cheese left over from their shopping trip in Orzammar. Cheese went well with most anything, didn't it?

Unfortunately, of the exhausted "many in the group," he discovered one such to be Solona, who collapsed into her bedroll just as he was pulling out the rose from his pack. He spent the rest of the evening and his watch idly turning the flower in his hand, deep in thought.

The day after, then? He could only hope.

But that hope dried up into dust when, in the afternoon, tensions in the group finally burst into outright conflict. All around him, people argued and spat at each other like angry cats, and not even Solona's threat to "turn this march around" had worked to stop them. It took more willpower than he liked to admit not to join in with his own frustrations.

Twenty times. _Twenty_ times someone had egged someone else on or started a fight themselves. Since just their midday break!

He groaned.

Perhaps the archdemon wouldn't need to kill them; they'd just do each other in, given time.

And he had _tried_ to settle some of the disputes and break up fights. That is, until Morrigan very nearly zapped him for daring to come to Leliana's defense on some debate about the Maker. Truthfully, he wasn't that fond of anything to do with the Chantry, nor was he an expert on any such matters, but the sister had looked close to tears – or close to pulling out a dagger and attempting to have a go at the witch, he never could tell for sure with her – that he'd felt the need to interfere, lest they be short one group member one way or another.

After narrowly dodging the lightning spell, he decided not to do so anymore. At least not until his hair stopped standing every which way and he ceased shocking himself whenever he reached for his sword and shield.

Which left only, really, Solona to do so instead. As kindly meant Wynne's lectures were, and as passionately touted Oghren's "drink till you pass out" method was, they irritated more often than they helped.

And, as much energy the young mage seemed to have for casting magic, she did not, unfortunately, have a limitless supply for casting miracles on their relations.

"My dear lady, have you ever heard that you have the most fetching of eyes?"

Alistair groaned again.

Morrigan narrowed her gaze at Zevran, who ambled along not far behind. "Indeed, I have," she coolly said, "right before I tore out those of the fool who'd said it."

The thinly-veiled threat hit the assassin with about the same effect as a wind-blown leaf. "Really, so harsh!" he cried, but the easy smile on his face spoke otherwise. "I was merely complimenting your appearance. After all, yours is one that deserves constant praise. To let it linger by the wayside, ignored and unappreciated, would be an injustice!"

"Zevran," Solona lowly warned. Though her voice had been soft, and made even softer by her walking several steps behind them both, her tone had been clear.

But the quiet promise seemed to only inflame the man's penchant for trouble, bringing a lively spark to his eyes and a kick to his step.

The witch crossed her arms and seethed. "You have spoken of this before, elf. I fell for it once; I shan't fall for it again."

"Ah, but that was for a bet," he rejoined, "and just because it was for a bet, that does not mean it's untrue."

At that, Morrigan visibly bristled at the memory, and Alistair swore the temperature dropped several degrees. Which wouldn't have been out of the realm of possibility, for he didn't miss the shimmer of ice forming in her hands.

"Zevran," Solona interrupted, striding up to put a hand on the elf's shoulder. As much to discourage him as to protect him, Alistair had no doubt. "You need to stop. I think we've all had enough for today."

"What? Enough of my charm?" Zevran gasped, his eyes wide. "Perish the thought!"

"You know what I mean," she wearily sighed.

The assassin pondered this for several moments, a wide grin stretching across his lips. "But, Solona," he drawled, "there are so many things you _could_ mean."

Now both women were glaring at him.

"What?" he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "I am merely having a bit of fun."

Solona tightened her grip on the assassin before nodding to the witch. "I'll talk with him, Morrigan," she said.

"See that you do," Morrigan replied, "before I talk sense into him some _other_ way."

At that, and with everyone else already fairly on edge from all of the other arguments that day, Solona stopped their march and broke for camp. With one unique request:

"Everyone must remain _quiet_!" she declared.

Well, save for Bodahn and Sandal, the only two aside from the horse and dog who'd dodged any disputes that day.

Alistair frowned, wondering how they'd managed. And particularly how _he_ could manage the same feat. Perhaps Bodahn had more of a silver tongue than he'd initially thought. Or a cloak of invisibility. Or perhaps it had something to do with the fact they sold them most of their supplies and gear.

Solona continued her announcement: "This means no talking, no quarreling, no rude or vulgar gestures-"

Zevran made a noise of disappointment.

"No casting offensive magic, no throwing weapons about, anything of that nature. Just – _quiet_. And, if you need help with anything or really need to say something…" She pressed a hand to her forehead. "Come ask me, and we'll figure something out." She rolled her shoulders with a huff. "Now, please, _silence_, until I say otherwise!"

And, with that, Solona took hold of Zevran and pulled him off into an out-of-the-way corner for what, Alistair presumed, would be a rather serious, heart-to-heart chat on his behavior. Or at least an attempt at one, if the elf's delighted grin was anything to go by.

Alistair sighed. He certainly didn't envy her position.

If nothing else, though, the rest of their group seemed to take her order seriously, as they began setting up their tents and taking out their pots and supplies without a word. He liked to think that it was the respect she commanded as their leader, but a part of him also wondered if it was more that many of them were simply happy for the excuse to have a moment to themselves.

Either way, the break had been a long time in coming. He could feel the tension that'd been seething and cracking in the air throughout the day finally start to ease by the time they had a fire going. It eased even more when they took out their belongings to occupy themselves with and relax.

Of course, some fared better with the silence than others: Wynne, for instance, simply read one of her many books, and Sten looked quite pleased – even for a stoic giant – with the momentary calm. Leliana, however, in between her longing stares at her lute, seemed about ready to fall asleep from boredom.

Alistair could sympathize. He flipped through Solona's copy of _Stone for Sword_ for he what was sure had to be the fifth time in a row.

Perhaps he should look into getting a book or two of his own to read. He would have to ask around for recommendations.

Except from Zevran. _Never_ from Zevran. He blushed at the thought of what the man would try to trick him into reading.

Speaking of the elf, he saw him finally emerge with Solona from the spot a little beyond camp they'd chosen for their talk, with a frown that could've dug a trench. Apparently, whatever conversation the mage had managed, it'd not been one he'd enjoyed. A rare achievement, considering his ability to twist words around for his own gain or, at the very least, entertainment.

Alistair smirked. He mused if he should start keeping points between the two.

"All right, everyone," Solona announced, "now that things have settled down some, you can talk." She cast a sharp look at all of the camp's occupants. "But, if there's any more fuss, it's right back to silence – for the entire _night_!"

Wynne smiled in amusement but, after a frown from the young mage, covered her mouth without comment.

Solona sighed, her shoulders drooping. "Right," she said. "Well, I'll just be checking in with everyone and on our supplies, as usual, if anyone needs me."

Then she strode off, leaving Zevran to stand alone near the clearing's edge. Catching Alistair's expression, the elf settled his hands on his hips and arched a questioning eyebrow. When the former templar simply grinned wider, he huffed and marched away to set up his own tent.

Alistair crossed his arms behind his head and settled back with a contented sigh. Really, could the evening get any better? He supposed it would be a bit much to ask Solona to freeze Morrigan's hair after everything today, but a man could dream.

When Bodahn pointedly coughed and "accidentally" dropped a couple pans near him, he realized with a start that _this_ man needed to cook.

Or at least attempt to.

Cheese, he reminded himself. There was still lots and lots of cheese in the cart. What could he make with cheese that everyone would like? He took a pan in hand and eyed it in consideration.

The answer came to him like a bolt from the sky: Cheese fondue!

He'd made it a few times for his own enjoyment in the abbey before being recruited, so he knew the recipe well enough. And, with their selection of breads and vegetables, everyone would be free to dip and eat what they liked. Which meant even less that he had to worry about messing up on.

Sure, it wouldn't help with his already infamous reputation as a cheese-lover, but food was food, right? Besides which, they'd complained enough about his stews, perhaps a change of pace would be well-appreciated by all.

In any case, it was _cheese fondue_. Really, who could argue with that?

He just had to try not to burn it. Or worse.

After setting up a suitable stack of rocks to support the pot over the fire, he gathered his ingredients: cheese (of course), flour, a clove of garlic, salt, water, chicken broth, and some light beer. He cut the clove in half and rubbed the bottom and sides of the pot with the halves before discarding them. Then he poured in the beer and broth, added salt for a little flavor, and stirred them together before setting the pot over the fire to heat. In another bowl, he combined the flour and water before adding them into the pot as well and stirring. While he waited for the mixture to thicken and start bubbling, Captain, the hound, came over and lay down next to him. As his hands increasingly took to the task, his mind took to wandering.

In particular, it wandered to the rose and to the ever-approaching issue of Redcliffe. Once they reached and, Maker willing, talked to Arl Eamon, there would undoubtedly be questions and uncertainties. Could they trust Queen Anora, the daughter of Loghain Mac Tir, as an ally? Would she really aid them in stopping the darkspawn rather than continuing a pointless civil war? If not, would he find himself thrust onto the throne to take her place?

In any other situation, he would have laughed at the mere thought of ever becoming king. Arl Eamon had told him – repeatedly – that he was a bastard, that it would never be expected of him. He knew he was an inconvenient nobody, so how could he possibly think he'd ever stumble into that role?

But now it seemed a bad dream that grew more and more real with each passing day. With King Cailan dead, the country falling apart, and a Blight spreading like wildfire, he had no idea what acts of desperation Arl Eamon would resort to in order to calm the chaos.

And what would the others in their group think of it? Maker's breath, what would _Solona_ think of it? What if she was intimidated by it? What if she coddled him for it, like even Duncan had? What if she dismissed right off any possibility of a relationship with him because of it? If he lost his chance with her due to this… this _mischance_ of birth, he'd never forgive himself.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to calm his racing mind. Rose first, he decided. If he could do that, he'd have some time to convince her that he was serious, that he wasn't going to abandon her for a throne he had never wanted in the first place.

But what time did he have? He obviously couldn't give her the rose today, not after the drama of taming the raging storm that was their group. But he couldn't keep putting it off either; their arrival at Redcliffe could come in as soon as several more days.

A loud belch startled him out of his thoughts. "Hey, you all right there, son?" a gruff voice asked. "You look about ready to keel over."

Alistair opened his eyes to find Oghren had, at some point, sat down next to him near the campfire. He felt rather astonished at that, sure the dwarf would have passed out somewhere by now as he usually did. "I… I'm fine," Alistair replied. "Just haven't been sleeping well, that's all."

Oghren pulled out and uncapped his ever-present flask of mystery liquor. After taking a gulp of the foul stuff, he laughed and said, "Yeah? You know what you need then? A good, ol'-fashioned nightcap, and I got one right here!" He thrust out the canteen towards him with a grin. "Go on, take a drink!"

Alistair tried not to cringe at the stinging odor that flooded his face. With a shaky smile, he pushed the proffered container away. "Ah, thank you, but no. I should really focus on getting dinner ready, you know. Mmm, fondue night!"

Oghren shrugged and took another swig.

_Well, looks like he's working on the whole passing-out bit_, Alistair thought. _I better keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't fall into the fire when he does._

But the dwarf didn't pass out. He just kept drinking.

And drinking.

And _drinking_.

Alistair gaped. _Maker's breath, how much alcohol can fit in one canteen? Or in a dwarf, for that matter?_

"Whatchu lookin' at, kid?" Oghren suddenly groused. "I haven't got a buttered roll stuck in my beard, have I? Swore I finished it off at lunch…"

Alistair felt his stomach swim a little at the thought. "Uh, no. It's nothing."

The dwarf grunted and leaned against the rocks behind him, turning his gaze back to the camp's other occupants. After a moment, he nudged the young man next to him and whispered, "Hey, look over there. Ya see what I see?"

Alistair turned his attention from the pot again with an inward sigh and followed the dwarf's focus. It landed on Morrigan's lean-to, where the witch and Solona softly spoke under the makeshift roof. "What? They're just talking," he replied.

Oghren snorted. "You ain't seein' it. Look again."

Alistair did, and he even tilted his head and squinted a little, but all he could make out was a simple conversation between the two women. "No, really, I don't understand. What are you seeing?"

The dwarf sniggered. "Glow-girl, that witchy gal, _together_. Now there's a sight I wouldn't mind any day of the week."

"Together"? Of course they were together. They were talking; they'd have to be together to do that. But, by the tone of his voice, the man obviously meant a lot more than that. Alistair turned his gaze down to the dwarf next to him in utter bewilderment. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Oghren huffed. "You know, knockin' boots, slappin' skin, explorin' their Wilds…"

He paused and looked up at the young man expectantly, who simply blinked in return.

"By the tits of my ancestors," the dwarf grumbled. "Havin' _sex_! What don't you understand about that?"

Alistair's face heated up to the tips of his ears. He quickly looked around, mortified by the idea that someone had overheard. Fortunately, only Captain reacted, one of his ears perking up in interest before flopping back down. Most everyone else seemed too busy with their own activities and concerns to notice.

He turned back to the dwarf. "I… No! Absolutely not!"

Oghren grinned up at him. "Aw, c'mon! What's wrong with a bit of love between two good-lookin' women?"

_Well, Solona and Leliana would be kind of hot…_ Before he got himself lost in a – admittedly tempting – daydream, he snapped, "That's personal, don't you think?"

The dwarf held up a hand. "All right, all right, got it. They're not together. _Fine_." He took a swig from his flask and then muttered under his breath, "Spoilsport."

Alistair sighed in relief, thinking he had dodged the topic. He looked back at the pot in front of him to find the fondue had begun to bubble and thicken. He pulled the pot away from the flames enough so it could cool to a lighter heat. Then he took out the cheeses and began slicing them into small pieces and adding them to the mixture, stirring after each addition until the cheese melted.

He sat back, happy at the prospect of actually coming up with something edible for once. He hadn't even made the mistake of adding one of the treats Solona set aside for Captain!

His joy, however, was short-lived. Just as he was about to relax and enjoy the heat of the fire, there came a familiar snigger from next to him.

Alistair closed his eyes and groaned. "What is it now, Oghren?"

"Ah, nothin', nothin'," the dwarf replied with a smirk. "Just, you know, I noticed glow-girl gets along pretty well with that big fella."

"You mean Sten?"

"Yeah, him."

"What of it?" he asked, and then his mind caught up with him. His eyes shot open. "I- No. _No_. They are not- Why would you even _think_ that?" he demanded, incredulity pitching his voice a bit too high to be comfortable.

Oghren, unbothered, just nodded sagely to himself. "Oh, yeah. I'm sure of it." He laughed and smacked his knee with a meaty palm. "Hah, it's the same thing every damn time, I tell ya! Some guy comes along, acting as hard and tough as the stone itself, and then he meets a sweet gal like glow-girl there who just makes him melt. Almost puts a tear to your eye, doesn't it?"

Alistair worried his eyes were going to roll out of his head. "No! No, it doesn't. There's nothing to suggest Solona and Sten are together at all, anyway."

The dwarf shot him a skeptical glance. "Eh? Really? Then what are all those massages about?"

"They're not special. She gives them to anyone who needs them," Alistair said, swallowing down the unsaid words _though I wish she would only give them to me_.

"Hmph. Then the fact that she checks over him and his armor after every fight?"

"She does that for all of us, too."

Oghren scratched his chin and thought for a long moment. "Well, I think she got him to smile once. Or maybe that was a trick of the light, I don't know."

Alistair felt the muscles in his shoulders and neck unwind as the support for the dwarf's strange fantasies fell apart, and he shook his head at the ridiculousness of it all. Honestly, a qunari and a former Circle mage? What would the man think up next?

But then a seed of doubt wormed its way into Alistair's chest and started to grow. The dwarf hadn't mentioned anything about Solona and him, and that _had_ to be obvious.

Hadn't it?

"Well, if you ask me," Alistair coolly said, examining the pot and hoping he didn't appear too interested, "I think Solona would like someone closer to home."

Oghren shrugged and idly swished the remaining liquor in his canteen around. "Eh, I don't know about that. There's something to be said for a taste of the exotic, after all, like that there Antivan elf."

The mention of Zevran of all people as a potential romantic interest made a spot between Alistair's heart and lungs burn hot and tight. "The assassin?" he replied, with a bit more bite to his tone than he intended. "That's unlikely, to say the least. In any case, she's not with anyone right now, so nothing is certain."

"What makes you think she isn't with someone already?" Oghren inquired. "It's not like you've exactly been putting the moves on her or anything."

"And what makes you think she is?" Alistair snapped. Then his mind finished processing the rest. "Hey! That's not true! I've been doing plenty."

"Really," the dwarf said flatly. "Haven't been seein' it."

"That's because you've been _drunk_."

"All right, no need to get touchy," Oghren huffed. He took another swig from his flask and then gave a long, drawn-out sigh.

Then, without warning, he reached over, grabbed Alistair by the collar of his shirt, and pulled him down to ear level.

"But, let me give you some advice, son," he muttered. "You can't sit around waitin' forever. Sooner or later, she's going to figure you're not interested and move on. You can thumb that sodding rose all you like, but if you don't do anything, even a Duster knows a tree can't grow without a bit of sun."

Then the dwarf released his hold, and Alistair, too shocked to respond, simply sat back up and stared straight ahead.

Oghren finished off the last of the alcohol in his canteen and, with a grumbled curse, got to his feet. He patted the dirt off his legs and rear and said, "Well, that's all I've got to say. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go take a piss," before staggering away.

Leaving Alistair alone, save for the dog, with his rather troubled and more than a little jumbled thoughts. He bent over and stirred the contents of the pot in front of him every so often as he tried to sort them out.

So he had been apparent. Oghren had seen easily enough where his affections lay. _Oghren_, of all people. A man who spent a good part of his day either passed out or trying not to trip over his own feet. On top of that, he'd only been a part of their traveling group for a couple of weeks. If he'd already caught on, then Alistair's feelings must have been as obvious as a lighthouse beacon on a clear night.

But apparently not obvious enough.

The night after leaving Orzammar stuck in his mind, how Solona sat near the fire clutching her scarred side. Maker, what if she thought she was hideous? What if she thought no one could even want her?

He would give her the rose, he decided, and he _would_ tell her how beautiful she truly was, in ways that no scar could ever change. Tonight.

So, he waited and watched as Solona continued her rounds among the people in their party. More murmurs and whispers came and went, though, interestingly, he managed to make out some mention of turtles in her conversation with Sten. Eventually, Oghren returned and plunked himself back down by the fire, but he said nothing more and seemed content enough waiting for dinner. Captain, without his noticing, had dozed off at some point, kicking a leg a couple of times in his sleep.

Then the moment came. Solona strode over and sat down next to him at the fire. She sniffed appreciatively and gave a small smile. "Mm. Smells good!" she said.

He smiled back and hurriedly added the remaining bits of cheese to the pot. "Hey, Solona," he said, "would you mind if we spoke for a moment?"

"Sure, we can talk," she replied. "Is here all right?"

Oghren raised an eyebrow and scooted a little closer in interest.

"Er, no," Alistair said, and the dwarf grumbled to himself. "How about just a little outside of camp? It's, um, private."

She nodded and got to her feet. "Would you please mind the pot, Oghren? We'll be right back."

"Yeah, yeah. Sure thing," the dwarf muttered and, with a huff, took hold of the spoon and started stirring the contents.

She started off towards to the edge of the clearing, and Alistair nearly trailed right after, beaming like an idiot, until he remembered:

The rose! It was still in his pack!

Solona stopped and looked back at him in concern when she found he hadn't followed. "Are you all right, Alistair?" she asked, frowning. "Is something wrong?"

He gave a nervous laugh. "No, nothing's wrong! I just remembered something." He waved her on. "Please, go ahead; I'll be right there!"

She hesitated, but when he waved again at her, she shrugged and continued on. With hitched breath, he crept over to his pack and pulled out the rose from its compartment. After making sure that it was still in good condition – and didn't need another soak in the rejuvenation draught – he carefully put it in his coat pocket and made his way over to the young mage waiting at the edge of camp.

She smiled as he approached. "Lead the way!" she said.

He smiled back, resisting the urge to pat his pocket to make sure the flower was still there. "Of course," he replied and, taking her hand, placed a gentle kiss on the back of it. She giggled. "Right this way, my lady."

He led her out of camp and in amongst the evergreens, walking until only the faint glow of the fire sifted between the trunks. There, the pale light of the moon flowed through the pine needles and the only sounds were of their boots crunching on the lingering snow.

It felt almost rather romantic, really, he thought. As silly as it sounded, the sight almost made him think of fairytales, when the hero would kneel down and confess his love-

_Not_ that that was necessarily how this would play out, he cautiously reminded himself.

He stopped and turned to her. He let go of her hand, certain she would feel how much he shook in the coming moments if he didn't. He took in a deep, readying breath.

Then he finally said, "I know you're probably tired and everything after going through that whole mess, but I've had this… thing on my mind a lot lately. I've just been putting it off over and over, and, well, I thought now might be as good a time as I'll ever get to say it. I hope you don't mind."

She shook her head and shyly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "No, I don't mind, Alistair. Actually, I was hoping to get a chance to talk privately with you, too."

Alistair blinked at that. "You were? About what?"

Her cheeks tinged pink, and she glanced down and away. "You brought me out here. You go first."

"No, no, it's all right," he said with an encouraging smile. "You go ahead and tell me what's on your mind. After a day like that, you've earned it!" He laughed.

Solona looked back up at him, and, no, it wasn't his imagination; her face was definitely becoming redder. "I… Well, that is…" She fidgeted, wringing her hands and pulling at her sleeves. "It isn't talking so much as… Oh, why am I so terrible at this?"

With that, she stood up on her tiptoes, threw her arms around his neck, and planted her lips on his.

Before he could respond – like by wrapping his arms around her and deepening the kiss, a very good response indeed – she pulled away.

"That was the wrong thing to do, wasn't it? That was stupid of me. I'm sorry!" she cried. "Listen, let's just forget about-"

He put a fingertip to her lips before she could say anything further. "No, that was fine," he soothed, as he felt his own cheeks begin to burn and his heartbeat quickened. "More than fine. In fact…" He slid his other hand to her back and pulled her close. Then he trailed the finger against her lips down to her chin, tipping it up towards him. "I think I'd like another go, just to see how much more 'fine' it could get."

With that, he leaned down and kissed her.

It was a gentle caress of lips, hers soft against his wind-chapped ones. He tightened his hold on her as he pressed closer, a quiet moan escaping his throat at the feeling of it. He had never known lips could be so sensitive, so pleasurable. Neither did he know it could feel so intense, holding another and feeling them respond. And he wasn't the only one affected by the feeling, if the hands grasping at his shirt collar were anything to tell by.

Finally, they pulled away with a gasp.

Solona looked up at him, her eyes wide and a scarlet blush on her cheeks. "Well," she said, a little stunned, "that was nice."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Just 'nice'? I'd better fix that."

He pulled her back against him and kissed her again. And again. And again, until their lips were swollen and the air couldn't seem to enter their lungs fast enough.

Maker, after so long! He thought his heart might burst with joy.

A slight ruckus came from the camp, softened by the snow and trees, and they spared a glance back the way they had come.

Solona sighed and stepped away. "I guess I had better-"

Alistair's expression fell at the thought of parting so soon. Then he suddenly remembered the rose still in his pocket.

"Wait!" he said, grasping hold of her hand before she could go further. Before she could reply, he brought the rose out from his coat and held it up to her. "Here," he said. "Look at this. Do you know what this is?"

She stared down at the red flower with round eyes. Then she smiled and laughed. "Your new weapon of choice?"

He grinned. "Yes, that's right," he said, his tone light. "Watch as I thrash our enemies with the mighty power of floral arrangements! Feel my thorns, darkspawn! I will overpower you with my rosy scent!"

She laughed even harder, and at that moment he didn't think she could look more beautiful. Unable to resist a moment longer, he took her in his arms and kissed her yet again.

He didn't think he'd _ever_ get tired of that.

After everything was said and done – and yet another lovely kiss exchanged – the two of them strolled back to camp hand-in-hand.

Alistair felt as light as air. He was so happy he felt as though he could burst into laughter or song or some other ridiculous thing no one would ever leave him alone about. But, truly, that last part hardly bothered him at the moment. To think, he had finally told Solona how he felt – without stuttering once, no less! – and she had in turn told him she felt the same. About him! He could hardly believe it.

Her, a former Circle mage. Him, a former templar recruit. The both of them, fighting against impossible odds to end a Blight, and yet found each other amidst all the darkness and strife.

Perhaps fairytales weren't just for children. Perhaps, in some cases, they were real.

At least, it certainly felt that way right now! Alistair sighed in bliss as he watched Solona glance up at him with her dark eyes and a soft smile. She warmly squeezed his hand one last time before letting go and ducking into her tent to stow his gift away.

Then, over next to the fire, he heard Oghren murmur, "All right, dog, pay up. I won the bet."

Captain gave a low grumble and huffed.

"What bet? You bloody know what bet! I said I could get the lad to fess up already, and you said I hadn't a chance in a million years. Now hold still…"

The hound whined and bolted into Solona's tent, to her surprised shout.

The dwarf stumbled to his feet and yelled, "It's just a saddle, you dumb mutt!"


	17. A Royal Revelation

Author's Notes: Oh, wow! I got another chapter up - at last! I'm really sorry about the long wait, everyone. I got off to a slow start writing this chapter, and then I ended up having a ton of computer issues, which, ultimately, was resolved by getting a new computer. I managed to save most of my files, though, and, hey, you know, new computer, so that's all good at least. Unfortunately, it all did take quite a lot of time, and so I apologize for that. Hopefully, this nice, long chapter will help to take some of the sting out of that wait, right? Right? *crosses fingers and hopes*

Also, I just want to take a moment to thank the people posting in the Dragon Age Writers' Corner here in the forums. I often go there for ideas and different interpretations on stuff, so if you haven't visited it already I would recommend checking it out. And, why not, a quick thank-you to all of the other writers in the Dragon Age section! I really appreciate all the time you guys take to do what you do. And, of course, thank you to all of my readers, especially for putting up with my sluggish schedule.

(And, of course, thank you to Bioware, for making any of this possible to begin with. :D)

Enjoy!

Chapter 17: A Royal Revelation

Her hands, Alistair realized, had grown rougher, not by much, but enough to notice when he held them in his own. The pale remnants of old cuts lined her fingers where she had gripped the rocks on steep paths too hard. Her palms, scuffed and scraped by countless hours of hiking, of cooking, of setting up camp, of taking it down. The flesh, hardened from battle after battle and day after day spent under the sun, wind, and rain.

He could still recall when they had once been soft and smooth, though the memories were few and faint by now. A quick handshake when they had first met at Ostagar, the brush of her fingers against his skin as she healed a wound in his forearm…

It saddened him, really, how he would never get to know them more as they had been. It troubled him even more when he thought of the sources of such marks. If only things had been different, if life had taken her on another path, perhaps they would still be free of the signs of hardship. Of course, if things had been different, they would never have met, and-

Solona cleared her throat. "As much as I like holding hands, Alistair, I believe you pulled me away to talk." She smiled up at him with playful eyes. "Unless, of course, I 'misheard'?"

With a flush, Alistair quickly released her. "No! I mean, yes. Yes to the talking. No to the other stuff." Then, as his mind caught up with his mouth, he hurried to add, "Not to mean I don't want to do other stuff later!"

Not a minute into the actual conversation, and he already wanted to smack himself. Wonderful.

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, can I start over? And have you pretend I wasn't being the idiot I usually am?"

She giggled and then, to his relief, kindly reached up to brush her fingertips across his cheek. "It's all right. You're just tense. Relax."

Right. Relax. Deep breaths, in and out, in and out. He couldn't help but wonder if he'd be the one giving her the same advice in the next minute.

"Talk, yes. That sounds good," he started, feeling a little lame. At least the heat in his face had begun to recede. "I need to tell you something I, ah, should probably have told you earlier."

The dogwood bushes behind them, the ones they had pushed through to get off the road for a moment of privacy, rustled ominously. And then just as quickly stopped when they spared a glance at the movement. Alistair prayed that it had been a rabbit or squirrel, even though he knew Captain would have already found and chased any away, barking his head off as usual.

Solona looked back at him and offered a reassuring smile. "What's on your mind?"

He swallowed thickly, the words tying themselves into knots in his throat. He hesitated again, wondering for a moment if he could say it was nothing and leave the matter buried forever.

But, no, there came that blasted image of Arl Eamon or, worse, a complete stranger letting a proverbial clowder of cats in bags out all at once. It had been years since he'd last spoken to Eamon, and it had been even longer since he'd last visited Redcliffe. He had no idea how many people there now knew. Lady Isolde? The castle maids? The guards? Even the regular townsfolk?

Oh, yes, he could see the news going over very well with Solona if that were the case. He could just imagine it: Someone would see them together, a glimpse of them holding hands or an overly-fond smile, and then, next thing she knew, everyone they crossed paths with would be asking her:

_Would you consider it a crowning achievement if your friend there became king?_

_Does your fellow worry at all about his receding heir line?_

_Traveling with a prince? That must be a royal pain._

No, no, he was quite sure any grief he'd get for telling her now himself would be a lot less than whatever he might face in the future if he didn't.

That knowledge, however, didn't help him to spit it out already. It also didn't help that he had waited until they were walking down the path to the village to tell her. Perhaps he could simply write a note instead and leave it in her pack? Or maybe-

"Alistair?" He felt a comforting hand squeeze his own. "Are you all right, Alistair? You keep wandering off."

A faint snicker slipped out from the bushes.

"I'm… fine," he replied and then, with a wince, amended, "No, actually, I'm not." There was no way out of it at this point; he decided he had best just dive in. "I told you before how Arl Eamon raised me, right? That my mother was a serving girl at the castle and he took me in?"

She nodded and waited for him to go on.

Deep breaths, in and out, he reminded himself. He took one in and then, in a rush, let out: "The reason he did that was because… well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my… half-brother, I suppose."

She blinked at him several times as she took the information in. Then, as revelation turned into realization, her eyes turned round and her mouth dropped open into a silent "oh."

Before Alistair could determine what her expression meant – hopefully, "Oh, Alistair, take me into your majestic, princely arms and kiss me!" rather than all of the other, much more dreadful possibilities – a piercing squeal erupted from behind the bushes.

He groaned. So much for even the semblance of seclusion.

"Ooh, it's just like a fairytale!" a distinctive, Orlesian-tinged voice cried. "How romantic!"

"Shh! You're interrupting the best part," hissed an equally-familiar, Antivan-accented voice.

Alistair crossed his arms and turned to scowl at the bushes. Though still quite thick with leaves even with the closing chill of winter, they weren't quite thick enough to disguise the dull glint of leather armor and the brighter shades of red and blond hair. There was also the fact that they creaked and swayed unnaturally every other second.

After a moment, a hand popped out and waved at them. "Go on! Go on! Don't mind the talkative plants!"

He contemplated continuing to glare at the pair, just to spite them. But, he realized he had yet to know of Solona's reaction and, worried the interruption had upset her further, looked back at the young mage with no small amount of trepidation.

Only to find her doubled over, hands over her mouth and shaking with the effort not to laugh.

"I'm s-s-sorry," she managed. "It's just that they're s-so _terrible_ at hiding, and the timing-"

"CAW CAW CAW!"

Several actual birds from nearby trees chirped in a panic and flew off. Solona tried to stifle another giggle, and Leliana whispered, "Zevran, you're making it worse!"

"I'm just trying to provide some ambiance," the elf said.

"It's certainly not helping," she replied, her tone terse.

"Well, I didn't say what _kind_."

Alistair couldn't decide what he wanted more: to march over and drag the two troublemakers out, or to "accidentally" let Captain into their packs later on.

Then Solona finally burst out laughing and grabbed onto his arm for support as her legs partly buckled underneath her. As glad as he was to find she wasn't recoiling – yet, anyway – her mirth didn't do his sense of self-esteem much good. Here he was, baring his deepest secret to her, and she just laughed at him. If it had been anything else, he might not have really minded, may have even gone along with it and laughed himself, but this secret had wrecked his childhood and he worried it would wreck the rest of his life if he let it.

He yanked his arm out of her grasp and, unable to resist the urge to retreat any longer, more or less barreled past Leliana and Zevran and back onto the road.

Slobber, he decided. The entire contents of the two rogues' packs would be drenched in slobber. He'd cook several legs' worth of ham to work up the drool from Captain if need be.

"Alistair?" Solona called after him. "Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry! Please come back!"

His chest tightened at the concern he heard in her voice, but, Maker's breath, he really couldn't take being mocked right then. They could continue the discussion later, when he wasn't so wound up and they had some real privacy.

But, "later," as it turned out, quickly turned into "a lot later" and then "perhaps never," for the moment Alistair stepped back onto the path he stepped into a whole mess of troubles. While much of the group still rested on the side of the road from when he had called the group to a stop – well, really, where Solona had called them to a stop, after he had told her they needed to speak in private – Wynne stood in the center of the path, speaking with a young man he didn't recognize.

The man appeared frantic, gesturing wildly in the direction of Redcliffe with what seemed like every other word he spoke. From this distance, Alistair could make out something about an attack and the castle, and his heart began hammering in a panic. Were they too late to save Redcliffe from the invading darkspawn? Had they taken too much time in Orzammar and the Deep Roads?

As he soon found in the chaos of broken carts, hasty barricades, and frightened survivors that Redcliffe had turned into, no, they weren't too late, but another day and they could have been. Or, rather, almost certainly would have been.

The young man – Tomas, he learned – briefly described to them the situation as they regrouped and continued to the town center. Aside from the slim force of guards still remaining, the town's only defenses consisted of the few able men from families too poor to leave. Their equipment, too, was poor: aged arrows, bows, and blades pulled from the dust-smothered corners of cellars and attics. The swords were dull, the wood of the bows weak and cracking, and the armor all but devoured by rust. It also didn't help that those who could really improve their lot – Dwyn, a veteran warrior, and Owen, the local blacksmith – had locked themselves up in their homes, refusing to speak to anyone.

The news Bann Teagan told them in the local chantry was just as grim: the undead were attacking Redcliffe each night, and with every casualty their numbers only grew. When Wynne brought up the possibility of demons, Alistair felt himself slipping. Suddenly, it was like they were back at the Circle Tower, and, in spite of all his templar training, he really had no firm idea what to do or what to expect.

Maker, he hoped this time wouldn't involve going into the Fade. He'd have to give himself a good, solid slap if he fell for the Goldanna trick again.

By the time they'd finished talking and laid out their new course of action to stay and help – even with Morrigan's long-suffering sighs – he felt more than a little lost and despondent. He wondered if this was how Solona had felt when they'd first gone to the Circle Tower for aid, if she'd been as shocked by news of her old home's destruction. To think Redcliffe could have changed so much in just the space of a few months, and then to think of how much more it might change in the next _day_…

After they stepped outside, Alistair groaned and pressed a hand to his face.

A pair of thin arms gently encircled his waist. "I'm so sorry," Solona whispered from behind him. "This must be hard for you, coming back to this."

He choked back a sob and just nodded.

She squeezed him, at least as much as she could while he still wore his armor. He momentarily worried she might give herself bruises if she did so any harder; he couldn't imagine hugging a suit of metal to be very comfortable. Still, he appreciated the gesture. He carefully settled his gauntleted hands over hers and ran his thumbs along the curve of her wrists.

Zevran snickered, and Leliana quietly giggled.

_Now if only we could be _alone_ for two minutes_, he thought.

With a sigh, Solona slid her arms out of his grasp and stepped back.

Before he had much time to mourn the loss of contact, he soon found himself busy enough thinking about plenty of other things. After reviewing their leads and tasks for the town's defenses, they split up: He, Oghren, and Sten occupied themselves instructing the armed townsfolk on proper sword-fighting techniques, and Zevran and Leliana tried to improve their archery skills. The numerous demands of untreated wounds and injuries quickly seized all of Wynne's attention and care, and Shale, too, fast became immersed in the work of repairing and setting up walls and barricades. Bodahn and Sandal were also hard at work, distributing much-needed supplies and transporting materials around town with the cart and horse.

This, then, left only Solona, Morrigan, and Captain to secure further assistance and resources for the night to come. Which Alistair wasn't quite sure how to feel about, honestly. He could only hope the three wouldn't end up destroying a house or worse in their attempts.

Again, though, his immediate concerns quickly grew full of other matters, particularly trying to avoid additional teasing and, namely, trying to avoid Zevran. Though Oghren appeared to forget most anything after a few mugs of ale and Leliana was currently too focused on her training to bother him further, the elf seemed to find an endless amount of amusement at his expense, especially since he'd discovered the two Wardens had entered into a romantic relationship.

Alistair wondered how practically everyone in camp had known about it not more than a few minutes after the two of them had confessed. It was almost downright _spooky_.

_Then again, we haven't exactly been very secretive about it_, Alistair mused. _What with holding hands almost the entire rest of the way to Redcliffe and all._

Not that he minded the hand-holding bit. He rather liked it, actually. All right, really liked it. And would have liked to do a fair bit more, if not for how everyone seemed to always be watching.

Or feeling the need to add commentary, as in Zevran's case.

In one instance, as Alistair took a moment to cool off near the lake from the exertion of practicing, Zevran had sidled up next to him to say, "If you haven't already, try using your tongue when you kiss her next. It may feel a little strange at first, but I assure you, you'll want to do it all the time before long!"

Then, again, as he was straightening a dummy on its post, a familiar voice whispered to him over his shoulder: "Some gifts to your lady love couldn't go amiss either. Perhaps she would like _The Rose of Orlais_? Or maybe _The Satinalia Surprise_? Classics, I assure you."

And, later, as he was cleaning and sharpening his sword, the assassin strolled by him, twirling one of his blades in his hand. "I know they say swordplay is best done with a companion," he said with a wry smile, "but, as they also say, practicing on one's own can help the _endurance_."

It was official: Alistair was going to die from embarrassment.

Well, if this night didn't kill him first. It almost came as a relief, in an odd way, when the brilliance of the sun dipped and finally dimmed as it settled behind the mountains. As people's minds turned more serious and grim, Zevran's teasing finally lessened and then ceased, and Alistair could at last relax. Well, for the moment.

Everyone silently ate what could be their final meal, watching as the sky bathed itself in orange and red. In that quiet, there came a sort of peace, an acceptance of whatever may come. A calm before the storm.

Or at least a calm before unimaginable undead horrors overwhelmed them.

He quickly surveyed the people around him, looking for one person in particular: Solona Amell. In the back of his mind, his thoughts still gnawed at themselves in anxiety, worried over the unfinished conversation they had begun that day.

But he couldn't find her. She wasn't with the men at the lake's shore, nor could he spot her walking about further up near the town gate. Concerned, he set aside his empty plate and, dusting his greaves off, stood up to look for her.

Fortunately, it didn't take long to discover where she was. She stood near the blacksmith's house, waiting on Sandal as he finished a few final touches on an old, enchanted shield. With a wide grin, the young dwarf completed his work and handed it off to the mage, who bowed her head in thanks and scurried away with a wide grin of her own. Curious, Alistair waited, watching as she ran over to the chantry to hand the equipment to…

A child?

"Thank you, miss!" the boy said. "We'll be sure not to let a single one of those monsters in!"

"You do that," Solona replied, back straight and hands on her hips. "Protect your sister and everyone else in there. As long as you all stick together, they won't stand a chance."

"Thank you again, miss!" the boy cried and then, beaming, turned and disappeared into the building.

She smiled as she watched the child run off.

Once the door had shut behind him, though, her posture sagged and she let her hands drop to her sides. With a sigh, she muttered to herself, "Here's to hoping it never comes to that."

"Never comes to what?" Alistair asked, choosing that moment to approach.

She jumped and whirled around. "Alistair!" she gasped. "Please don't sneak up on me like that!"

He looked down at his cumbersome plate armor before looking back at her with a raised eyebrow.

She huffed and crossed her arms. "I'm tired, and it's been a long day. There, that's my excuse."

He grinned and shook his head slightly, flicking a glance at the men still standing near the docks and the others making their way to stand guard near the gate. The clearing in front of the chantry, though, stood empty of anyone, save for him and her.

"You're not the only one, I'm sure," he said. "But, really, what were you doing giving weapons to a child? That's rather dangerous, don't you think?"

"A shield," she corrected. "I was giving a shield to Bevin. You know, Kaitlyn's formerly-missing little brother?" She ran her fingers through her hair, turned stringy and messy from the strain of the day, and pulled it away from her face. "I gave the other children shields, too. The adults in there are absolutely exhausted. There's just nothing left to them. But the children…" She chewed on her lower lip in thought. "Maybe they're too young to know how to lose hope, but they're not giving up. I wanted to offer them something to make them feel more useful, less helpless."

"It's more than that. You were enchanting those shields," he pointed out.

She pursed her lips before heaving a long sigh. "Yes. It's a simple push spell. Anything that hits the shield's front will be knocked back a little, enough to stun whatever's attacking," she said. "At least it should. We don't have the materials or ability to make the enchantment permanent, but it should last the night. In case we… Well, in the event that we…"

He stepped forward and enfolded her in his arms. "Shh. I know. I understand." He pulled away enough to look down into her eyes and ask, "But giving them to the children? Really? Wouldn't the adults do better?"

She offered him a small, tight grin. "Clearly, you've never had a bunch of kids take one of your friends hostage and demand ransom."

He laughed at the image that sprang to his mind of a group of mages trying and failing to overtake a fort of books and pillows commandeered by children.

But then the humor faded away as his previous concerns resurfaced.

"Solona," he murmured, "about our conversation earlier…"

She took one of his hands and pressed it between her own. "Yes, I understand that being here after so long must be upsetting for you," she softly said. "I'm here for you if you need me, Alistair. I'm always here."

A warmth bloomed in his chest at her words, but they did nothing to quiet the uncertainties still roiling inside of him. He slipped off the gauntlet from his other hand and tucked it beneath his belt before cupping her cheek. "Thank you," he replied, "but I mean earlier than that."

She pressed her lips as she tried to remember. "The one about… Oh!" Her expression lit up, and then she smiled and shook her head. "Oh, Alistair, I wasn't laughing at _you_. I was laughing at Leliana and Zevran. They really can be quite terrible at times." She sighed and squeezed the hand between her own. "I'm sorry if it seemed otherwise."

Well, that was _one_ load off. He let out a relieved breath and offered a small, hesitant smile. "Hah, I can agree with you there!" he said. "But, ah… Go back just a _little_ bit further."

Her brow furrowed as she once again tried to recall.

He gave a mental groan. Really, were they going to slog through that whole conversation again? "All right, I'll give you a hint," he said. "It has something to do with a throne."

"A throne? Are you talking about the dragon I found in the Orzammar palace?" she asked.

He still wondered about that, but… "No," he said. "Try again."

She returned to her pondering, and he drew his hands away and crossed his arms, more to cover the fact that they were starting to shake than anything else. "A throne," she said again. "Oh! Do you mean the one in Denerim?"

"You're getting closer," he said. "Think about who sits on it."

"Well, Loghain is currently-"

"_Not_ Loghain," he growled. He opened his mouth, about to further complain about _him_ of all people, before reconsidering and snapping it shut. No, he didn't need to make this conversation worse by bring that backstabber into it. Instead, after a moment of silence to calm himself, he sighed and said, "No, Solona. Me. It's about me."

She raised her eyebrows at him in confusion. "You?" she replied. "But you're not a… a…" Her eyes grew round as the memory finally returned. "Prince. _You're_ a _prince_," she said, and she blinked and stared at him as though she had never seen him before. "You're a prince, and… and I… I…" She blinked again, her mouth falling agape. "Why did this not actually register in my mind until now?" she cried.

_No, no, no, _no_!_ Alistair's mind shouted, his heart leaping in horror. _Not this reaction! Not with _her_!_

"Shh, shh, it's all right," he soothed and, after slipping off his other gauntlet, cupped her face between his hands. "Please, calm down."

Well, no, it wasn't all right. She was a mage, and he was a bastard prince, and Arl Eamon, if he lived – oh, Maker, please let him live – might end up pushing him onto the Fereldan throne for all he knew. But she didn't _need_ to know that, not when he still thought there was just as much of a chance they would consider a fish for the position.

"No, it's not all right!" she cried, and he quickly pressed a kiss to her forehead.

And another kiss. And another, and another. Really, anything he could do to make her stop worrying and just go back to how everything was before, and, damn it, why did he have to open his big mouth and-

"I should've been addressing you as Your Highness this entire time!"

He froze, the words dropping into his gut like a cold stone. He groaned and settled his face into her squirming shoulder. "Don't call me that," he pleaded. "It sounds so strange." _And frightening_, he silently added.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I-I'm not very familiar with-"

"No, please, don't call me that either!"

"Your-"

"No, no, _no_," he moaned, leaning back to look at her eyes, full of apprehension and uncertainty. "Just call me Alistair. By the Maker, I haven't even been crowned or anything, so please don't call me by any titles. Just, Alistair. Understood?"

She bit her lower lip and, after a moment, nodded.

Then she asked, "So, you're not just a bastard, but a royal bastard?"

The joke caught him off-guard, and he laughed. "Yes, I guess it does at that! I should use that line more often," he said with a grin.

But then, with a sigh, his smile faded.

He continued, "I would have told you, but it never really meant anything to me. I was inconvenient, a possible threat to Cailan's rule and so they kept me secret. I've never talked about it to anyone." He sighed again, absentmindedly running his thumbs across her cheekbones. "Everyone who knew either resented me for it or they coddled me. Even Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of it. I didn't want you to know, as long as possible." He looked deeply into her eyes, trying to silently convey all the pain and loneliness he had suffered over the years from the subject. "I'm sorry."

She said nothing in response for some long moments, undoubtedly mulling the information over, and he let her. He could only hope she would understand or at least forgive him. Maker, he feared she might end their relationship right then and there, before they'd even truly begun, before he'd been able to _explain_-

She laid a hand over one of his and gently smiled up at him. "It's all right, Alistair," she said. "I think I understand."

With those words, it was as though an enormous weight lifted itself off of his shoulders, and he heaved a sigh of relief. "Good, I'm glad," he replied. "It's not like I got special treatment for it anyhow." He gave a short, nerve-wracked chuckle. "At any rate, that's it. That's what I had to tell you. I thought you should know about it."

The corners of her smile widened into a playful grin. "Are you sure? You're not hiding anything else?"

He grinned back, genuinely glad for the teasing banter. "Besides my unholy love for fine cheeses and a minor obsession with my hair, no. That's it. Just the prince thing."

She giggled and leaned closer to him, tilting her head up towards him. He instinctively tilted his in turn, almost able to feel the waiting kiss in the air. "Well then," she said, "I-"

And that's when he suddenly found himself eating a face-full of dirt.

"Don't worry, my lady!" a shrill voice yelled. "I shall save you from the wicked cooties!"

"What? No way! It's totally the girl who's got them!" another high-pitched voice said.

"Alistair!" Solona cried, kneeling down next to him. "Alistair, are you all right?"

Alistair coughed and rolled onto his side, casting a glare at the children who'd toppled him over with their enchanted shields. Upon seeing his black expression, they shrieked and then ran off back to the chantry sniggering and laughing.

Solona offered him a hand, which he accepted.

"My dear," he said, once he'd gotten back to his feet, "you know that shield idea of yours? Not the best."

She rubbed the back of her head. "Er, my bad?"

He crossed his arms and leveled a cool look at her. She gazed back nervously and shuffled her feet against the ground, uncertain of what more to say.

Then, with a sudden grin, he scooped her up into his arms and soundly kissed her. From the chantry doors, a chorus of disgusted cries erupted from the children watching, and the two of them found themselves snickering into the kiss.

Hah! He could still get the last laugh!


	18. Accursed Comforts

Author's Notes: Hey, everyone! Sorry it took me a while to update again. But, at last, here's another chapter! And it's even longer than the last. Yeesh! I guess I'm still not very good at writing shorter pieces. In recompense, I present to you another bathing Alistair. Rawr.

I also have since gone back and made a bunch of minor revisions to previous chapters, so hopefully much of it reads a little better now.

And, as always, thank you so much for reading, reviewing, favoriting, everything - I really appreciate it all!

Chapter 18: Accursed Comforts

There was, perhaps, such a thing as _too_ helpful.

Ordinarily, Alistair didn't mind assisting most everyone they met: refugees asking for protection for a night, travelers without enough food to reach the next town, families looking for lost loved ones, kittens stuck in trees, and so on. To be honest, he liked doing so. Between the violence of fighting darkspawn, abominations, and bandits and the business of sorting through political mess after mess, all for the sake of getting aid for the Blight, helping those people made everything seem more meaningful, somehow. Even if they weren't able to kill the archdemon, even if they couldn't save everyone in the end, knowing they had at least made a difference in some people's lives brought a measure of peace to his mind.

If nothing else, such efforts were well worth seeing Morrigan gag over.

But assisting a _blood mage_? Perhaps it was just his templar training talking, but the idea didn't sit so well with him. Besides, you know, the whole consorting-with-_demons_ bit.

But, no, there Solona was, practically tearing through the prison warden's set of keys as she tried each of them in the lock. Though, it wasn't as if the man was going to reprimand her or anything, being dead and all. Well, dead_er_, after driving a sword through his shambling corpse.

And _he_ certainly wasn't going to reprimand her – he'd never seen her so mad!

"Damn it, _work_, you hunk of metal!" she grumbled. "We don't have time for this!"

"You're not letting him go, I hope," Wynne said, her arms crossed. "He must face the consequences for his actions-"

"I said I didn't do it!" the imprisoned man cried. "It was the arlessa's son, Connor. _He_ summoned the demon, and it possessed him and caused all this destruction. Weren't you listening to a word I said?"

"As I recall," Wynne coolly replied, "you also said _you_ poisoned the arl."

The black-haired man gave a despondent sigh and, grasping the bars of his cell, rested his head against the iron poles. "I know I did wrong by that, and I'm sorry, _so_ sorry," he said. "I was trying to save Lily, and Loghain _promised_- Augh, forget it!" He let out a frustrated groan and sagged against the bars. "Why do I even bother trying to explain? You won't understand!"

"No, it's very likely I won't," Wynne replied. "I've heard many so-called 'reasons' from those who turned to blood magic, and, frankly, I've never been convinced of its good. The tragedy wrought on this town simply proves it."

Jowan – that was the name Solona had said – cast an annoyed glance at the elder mage. "I know your type. You trust everything the Chantry tells you without question," he snapped. "They could tell you the moon was made of cheese, and you'd believe it!"

"Now why didn't I ever get that lesson in the abbey?" Alistair muttered to himself.

But Jowan seemed to take no notice of his comment, instead turning his attention to the younger mage in front of him. "Solona, I want to help," he begged. "I _know_ I can. Just give me a chance-"

"You _had_ your chance," Solona hissed, cursing to herself when another key failed. "You had it back at the Tower, and you blew it. Thanks for that, by the way."

"I said I was sorry!"

She ran a hand through her hair with a frustrated huff. "Why didn't you ask me for help?" she demanded. "Why didn't you look for me? You must have heard by then I was with the Grey Wardens. We could have tried to rescue Lily together! You didn't need to do all of… all of…" She grimaced and threw a hand in the air. "This!"

Jowan's already-crestfallen frown deepened. "I thought you were dead," he said quietly. "I heard you'd been sent to Ostagar, but by the time I found that out, it was…" He trailed off with a shuddering sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry about everything."

Alistair could have sworn he caught a glimmer of sadness in Solona's gaze, and he almost instinctively reached out to comfort her. But then it was gone the next second as she passed a hand over her eyes, and her hardened expression returned.

"And if you help, what then?" she asked. "What happens afterwards?"

"Afterwards?" Jowan said. "I assume I'll be arrested. Or executed. Or… whatever people like me get."

There it was again, that sheen of grief in her eyes that she pushed back as quickly as it appeared. She stuck another key in the lock, and then another, before it clicked and finally dropped open. She shoved the rusted, squealing gate aside.

Then she pointed down the way they'd come – out. "Run. I don't want to see you again. Ever."

The man balked. "But-"

"Get out, Jowan!" she yelled. "Just go!"

He hesitated for a moment longer before nodding sadly. "I'm sorry things ended this way. I… hope I see you again one day, under better circumstances."

And then the man ran away up the steps to the windmill, and they heard no more of him.

Oghren grunted. "Some reunion, huh?"

Solona pressed her hands to her face and sighed. "Yeah," she said. "Some reunion." Then, with a shake of her head, she took hold of her staff from where she had laid it on the floor. "Come on, we've got an arl to save."

And a fair bit more, as they soon discovered. The blood mage had spoken the truth about Connor – both the magical abilities and the possession – and the reality of it sent Alistair's mind spinning. He could hardly have believed this boy, who had been a mere infant last he'd seen, was capable of such power and destruction. How long had Lady Isolde kept Connor's magic a secret? Months? Years? Had it manifested even before he'd left for Denerim?

It would explain all of the mysteriously broken pots and plates Isolde had blamed on him, he thought.

However, there was little time to dwell on any of that at present. Though they had managed to subdue Connor with a sleep spell, they all knew it wasn't a permanent solution.

But what could they do? At first there'd seemed little choice except to put the poor child out of his misery, but when Isolde screeched loud enough to wake the dead all over again, they agreed to consider what other options might exist. Then Wynne – thank the Maker for her – remembered a method by which they could attempt to drive the demon out, and it was off to Kinloch Hold with her, Solona, Leliana, and Oghren on the fastest boat available to obtain the assistance of the Circle of Magi. The rest of them stayed behind to keep watch over Connor, and Morrigan, as necessary, renewed the spell over him.

Unfortunately, even the fastest boat took the better part of a day and a half, and Alistair frequently found himself looking northward in anticipation of their return. When the next night came, he was too restless to sleep, and he began pacing the halls with his shield and sword. Just in case they'd missed any undead, he told himself, but he knew that wasn't true; at this point, he'd have been better off in the larder looking for undead rats if that were the case.

Then, in the early hours of the morning, there came a pounding on the castle doors, awakening those who'd managed to catch a few winks in spite of everything. A few scant moments later, First Enchanter Irving and a group of senior enchanters, as well as Solona, Wynne, Leliana, and Oghren, rushed in and began setting up for the ritual in the main hall. As they did, their other companions gathered about, and, in time, many of the soldiers free from patrol also trickled in to look on.

Unsure of anything he could do to help, or, rather, sure he'd only mess things up if he did, Alistair stood watching from the side of the room in his armor, shield and sword at his side in case… in case of anything, really. He wasn't sure what all might go wrong, but it was good to be prepared.

He'd seen a Harrowing once before, during his time as a templar-in-training, and so he vaguely recognized some of the gestures and incantations that the mages performed. Morrigan similarly stood by observing, though he had a feeling she actually understood more of what they did than him in spite of her inexperience. Most everyone else dithered on the outskirts of the hall, many of them from mistrust or outright fear, he had no doubt. Only Isolde braved approaching the increasingly elaborate circle of arcane marks and figures, and that was just to ask the mages again and again if the ritual would truly work.

Somehow, he had a feeling they would have appreciated it more if she hadn't.

Then, as their preparations seemed to near completion, Solona stepped aside to speak with him. As she came closer, he saw the wrinkles in her robes and the dark circles under her eyes, and he wondered how much sleep, if any, she'd managed to get in the past days.

"I think it's almost ready," she told him. She ran an unsteady hand across the back of her neck. "Listen, I… Alistair, I'm really sorry about everything that's happened here," she said. "To you, to the arl, to those who live here, to those who used to." She sighed and her eyes darted around, as if searching for the words. "I didn't know. I didn't know that this would… I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

Alistair furrowed his brow at her in confusion. What was she apologizing for? Letting the blood mage, Jowan, go free? Sure, he personally hadn't liked that very much, but it'd seemed a marginally better option than leaving the man to just die.

She didn't blame herself for all this, did she? Even if she knew the man very well – and she appeared to – it was a poor basis for taking the blame for another's actions.

"There's nothing to apologize for, Solona," he said. "This isn't your fault."

But she only shook her head. "No. No, you don't understand. I…" With a frown, she suddenly took his hands and pressed them between her own. "I'll tell you later, once all of this is over. But, for now, I'll do everything I can to fix this, I promise you."

His heart beat a painful rhythm against his ribs as a swell of panic surged and lodged in his throat. "You're not… You're not implying _you're_ the one who's going to…"

She began to pull away. "It'll be all right. I need to do this, Alistair."

He twisted his hands around hers and held on. "Maker's breath, no, you don't! Get someone else – Wynne, Morrigan- All right, maybe not Morrigan, but _someone else_. You haven't slept. You're exhausted."

She yanked at his grip, trying to free herself. "Alistair, please! There isn't much time."

But he wasn't about to let go, no, absolutely _not_. This wasn't just dangerous – and they all did plenty of that already – it was downright _crazy_. She was beyond spent from the past several days; he doubted she had the energy to fight off an extremely comfy pillow, much less a demon. She needed to stay here, with him, and she needed to _rest_. As much as he appreciated all of the trouble the Circle mages had gone through to help Connor, he couldn't overemphasize enough how completely horrifying he found the idea of Solona winding up possessed as well.

After all, it'd make introducing her to people _so_ awkward: _Hello, this is my love, Solona. Oh, and please don't mind the demonic bits. Really, you'll find the evil voice and plots to take over the world grow on you after a while._

Riiiight. He could see that going very well.

Zevran chose that moment to approach, striding louder than his practiced feet usually allowed in order to catch their attention. "Perhaps," he said, "Alistair has a point. There is good reason to be hesitant to send our own leader, fearless as she may be, to fight this force alone."

Alistair felt the tension begin to drain out of him with the elf's support.

Solona struggled and hissed, "Zevran, you're not helping!"

Then Morrigan stepped up and said, "Ah, now what is this? The assassin showing concern for his mark? Or, perhaps, 'tis a game he plays, sowing doubt in the direst of hours?"

The tension turned around and surged right back in. Alistair narrowed his eyes at the witch.

Zevran replied, "True, perhaps I am sowing doubt, but, if so, it is reasonable doubt." Then, with a grin, he added, "And why should I not be concerned? She provides me protection from the Crows, a place to sleep, food to eat, and she is quite nice to look at, too. Letting her die or turn into a raving abomination rather ruins those things, don't you think? _Especially_ the attractiveness part. As open-minded as I am, I do draw the line at certain points."

Solona groaned. "I'm right here, you know."

But she went unnoted, and Morrigan rolled her eyes. "What do you propose then? That we send more mages in to assist? In case you weren't listening, we do not have the means; there is only enough lyrium for _one_ mage." She crossed her arms with a huff. "Anyway, I do not see why the both of you insist on this delay. She has made her choice, so let her do what she must. Then this matter will be over one way or another, and we can be on our way."

Alistair sputtered and drew Solona into a tight embrace. "Don't you get it?" he said. "She could die – or worse!"

"Yes, she could," the witch replied, "but I believe she _won't_. Now, what do you believe?"

Alistair mulled this over.

On the one hand, yes, he knew well just how powerful Solona was. Their many deceased foes spoke to that, if the destructive magic she regularly cast with ease didn't already. Even the twisting stretches of the Fade couldn't stop her from saving the day, as he'd found out in the Circle Tower.

But, even knowing all that, he found himself hesitating. She'd been in good shape then, in decided contrast to the dirty bundle of robes already slumping into his embrace in exhaustion.

Solona ran a reassuring hand across the back of his neck. "I can do this, Alistair," she whispered.

"Please," he said, "just rest a night. One more night."

"We do not have the time," Morrigan said.

"Please," he said again, hugging Solona tight. "Please."

Solona exchanged a pointed look with Morrigan, and the witch sighed and raised her arms.

And that was the only warning he got before the world went black.

When Alistair awoke, he found himself still in the main hall, albeit on the floor and with a very stiff back. A rolled length of cloth had been placed under his head, and someone had laid a blanket across him as well. He blearily shoved both aside as he sat up and looked around.

The hall was empty. Well, nearly. Oghren sat propped up against the wall next to him, an empty mug in hand and already quite clearly passed out.

But no sign of the ritual, any mages, or Solona.

He took the dwarf by the shoulders and shook him. "Oghren! Oghren, wake up!"

The dwarf slowly opened his eyes, first the right and then the left. "By the ancestors, what is it?" he groaned. "It's too sodding early for-" He suddenly stopped and rubbed his eyes before looking again at the man in front of him. "Pike-twirler, you're finally awake!" Cupping a hand to his mouth, he turned and yelled to the adjoining corridor, "Hey, the lad's up!"

A commotion began in the next hall, as one guard shouted to another the news. Before a minute had passed, Bann Teagan came rushing in and kneeled down next to them.

"Maker's breath, are you all right, Alistair?" he asked, offering the younger man a hand up. "How are you feeling?"

Alistair accepted it and got to his feet, wincing when his spine protested the movement. He watched as the bann offered a hand to Oghren, but the dwarf waved it off and lowered his chin back to his chest, ready to nod off again.

"I'm fine, Bann Teagan," Alistair replied. "Thank you."

Teagan turned back to him. "I was quite worried. I couldn't seem to wake you earlier, after the ritual had finished, but the… _odd_ woman – Morrigan, was it? – said you would be all right. I'm glad to see that was the case." With a wry grin, he added, "I apologize for not moving you to more comfortable accommodations, but carrying someone in plate armor is, well…" He shrugged. "I think we would've had more luck bringing the bed to you than the other way around."

At the mention of the ritual, Alistair's brow creased. He asked, "The ritual – how did it go? Is everyone…?"

Teagan answered his question with a kind smile and nod. "Yes, Alistair, everyone is all right. Connor is back to his usual self, more or less. He doesn't seem to remember anything that's happened, but I suppose that's just as well. And Isolde, of course, is overjoyed to have her son back. Arl Eamon still won't wake, but he at least does not seem to be getting worse."

"And Solona…?"

"Is resting in a bedroom we managed to salvage in the west wing," he finished. "_She_ was much easier to carry." He paused, considering, as his smile grew wider and a twinkle appeared in his eyes. "She is a… marvelous woman, isn't she? I'd never have imagined she-"

But Alistair was already running out the door.

_West wing, west wing, west wing_, his mind chanted. He hadn't been inside the castle in years, but memory and his more recent late-night roaming served him well enough to find the stairs and corridor.

However, it took him a good deal longer than he originally expected to reach them. He was surprised to find the main hall crowded with servants, guards, and villagers alike. They talked, laughed, and sang, the din of which rattled his tired head, and it was only by some miracle that most didn't notice him. As he quietly edged along the walls just a few here and there recognized him, grasping him by the arm, shaking his hand, and thanking him profusely as he passed by. But the massive crowd made "just a few" quite many in all, and his arm started to grow numb after a while.

He smiled and nodded back at them as much as his aching neck would allow. "Yes, yes, thank you. No, really, just doing my job. Glad I could help. Yes, thank you. Really, don't worry about it," he said to them all again and again, practically chanting it by the time he finally reached the stairs.

Then he was dashing up the steps and gone.

The second floor, fortunately, was emptier. Only a few servants and guards walked by every so often, either on patrol or carrying out remnants of the destruction. Most of the doors to the rooms had been left open for easier surveillance while they'd waited for aid from the Circle, and many remained in much the same state, allowing him an easier search. It also helped that he passed by a maid going the other way and managed to get a specific location from her.

But, of course, the door to Solona's room was closed.

In his eagerness, he briefly thought of simply flinging the door open. But then he considered the very real possibility that if Solona were up and about, she might be bathing after going so many days without, and if she were bathing, she would be _naked_, and…

He coughed and tried to clear his mind. Yes, knocking would be good. He did so, waiting with an expectant smile.

Morrigan answered the door.

He frowned. She was most _definitely_ not a naked Solona.

"What is it, Alistair?" she groused. "And stop scowling at me! I haven't even done anything to you. Yet."

His frown deepened. "Yes, you did," he protested. "You put a sleeping spell on me and left me on the floor!"

"_That_ was due to your own foolishness," she replied, crossing her arms. "You had let your emotions cloud your mind, and we were losing precious time as a result." She uncrossed her arms and stepped aside. "Now, unless you came to throw more baseless accusations about, I expect you intend to see how Solona is faring."

Alistair opened his mouth, about to argue further with her, but then he thought better and snapped it shut. As much as he disliked her, he had no desire to get into a quarrel with her now of all times. Especially not when she might shove him right back out the door and not allow him to see Solona at all.

He stepped inside, careful to maintain at least a foot's-worth of space between him and the witch the entire way. He would've preferred two- or three-feet's-worth, but unfortunately the doorway wasn't quite that wide.

Morrigan gestured to the bed in the corner, where a form lay quietly sleeping. "As you can see, she is still resting," she said. "Wynne said that those recovering from travel to the Fade must not be disturbed unless absolutely necessary, lest it harm the connection between body and spirit, but I shan't concern myself overmuch with the veracity of such a statement. Go ahead and do what you must, and then _leave_." She pinched her nose shut with a grimace. "You smell one hound short of a kennel."

"Heyyy," he whined, but the witch had already stepped out and shut the door.

He turned his attention back to the mage sleeping on the bed. He momentarily wished he had thought ahead to remove his armor, but, with a sigh, he settled for taking off his gauntlets and setting them on a desk. Then he tiptoed over to the bed, doing his best not to let the pieces of his suit bang up against one another.

Once he was close enough, he could indeed see that she was still asleep, her eyes closed and her breathing even. He reached over and brushed a stringy lock of hair away from her face. He lingered for a moment to gently sweep a thumb across one of the dark circles under her eyes. He had noticed them even before Redcliffe at times – Maker, everyone had them to some extent, what with the strain of battle and the sleepless nights – but never with such intensity. Against her skin, made nearly chalk-white by the weak light filtering through the curtains, they looked large and almost purple, like angry bruises from a hard-won fight.

He briefly considered taking off his armor and climbing into bed with her right then, Wynne's advice be damned. He wanted to hold her, to touch her, to make sure she was real and solid and still herself, that it wasn't some dream he had awakened into.

But he knew he shouldn't, not with Morrigan standing right outside the door. Maker, what if she caught him in the midst of disrobing and thought he was up to something _else_? He'd never hear the end of it!

He leaned over to place a soft kiss on Solona's forehead and, satisfying himself with one more look upon her still form, turned, gathered his gauntlets, and opened the door.

Morrigan stood leaning against the opposite wall. "You are done, I take it?" she inquired.

He nodded and rubbed his jaw, feeling, for what seemed liked the first time, the layer of stubble coming in, even as he knew he had unconsciously felt it time and again for days now. Perhaps the witch had a point about bathing… "Yes," he finally answered. "Yes, I'm finished. You can go and continue with… whatever it was you were doing."

"Very well." Morrigan curtly stepped past him and back inside the room. Taking hold of the latch, she turned and said, "Oh, and Alistair?"

He looked back at her, and he was surprised by the softness he found in her gaze. "Yes?"

"You must keep up your strength. There is food in the kitchen, when you are ready to eat." With a sniff, she added, "Really, I can hear your stomach growling from a mile off."

Then she shut the door.

Alistair stared at the door for several long moments, trying to process what exactly he'd just seen in Morrigan's expression.

She hadn't been… _concerned_, had she? And for _him_? He had to have been imagining things.

He shook his head, deciding he shouldn't think much more on it, lest he give himself a headache or worse. Instead, he started wandering further down the hallway. It was true that he felt hungry, but he didn't much like the idea of facing the crowded corridors downstairs again so soon. As well-meaning as the people were, if they saw him, they would undoubtedly try to give him a cheer, offer him a drink, or some other thing, and he honestly just wasn't in the mood for such interaction right then.

No, he simply wanted… quiet. _Peace_.

With a deep sigh, he looked around the hall where he walked. Here, the lighting was darker, the windows too few and small to let the sun's midday rays in to much effect. Overturned furniture, shards of broken vases, and torn tapestries lay scattered across the floor. He could neither see nor hear anyone else in the hall, and the silence cast a desolate mood over the corridor. He assumed many of the servants and guards were still concentrating on restoring the more lived-in parts of the castle, such as the entry, dining quarters, and arl's bedroom.

His stomach grumbled again at the thought of food, but he continued to ignore it for the time being. He hooked his thumbs into his belt and slowly walked down the hall, feeling all of a sudden quite weary.

He needed to sit down and rest. Only for a bit, he told himself.

After a couple of minutes of wandering, he came upon a small alcove where several chairs lay upon the floor intact and in largely good shape. He toed the remains of what had once been a flawless mirror out of the way and bent down to right one of the seats. It was made out of solid wood, which had once been polished to a shine, and heavily laden with cushions, and it took more effort than he would've liked to admit to pull it up.

Then he sat down, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.

Only for a bit, he told himself again. Just a few seconds of rest, and he'd be right as rain once more.

What seemed like only a moment later, though, he felt someone tapping him on the shoulder and heard a breathy, high voice ask him, "Ser? Um, ser? Pardon me, ser?"

Alistair cracked an eye open and realized, with a bit of embarrassment, that he had actually slipped off to sleep for a good deal longer than he had intended. The corridor was darker now, the light from the few windows weak as the sun began to set.

He ran a hand through his tousled hair with a groan and blinked several times, trying to clear the sand from his eyes. Looking up, he saw a young woman with a thin face surrounded by long, light brown hair, her forehead creased and her lips drawn tight with concern. It took a moment to place her in his drowsy state of mind, but when he did he thought it rather funny that he recognized her not by her appearance or clothes but by her fearful expression.

But, perhaps that was to be expected, considering when he had last seen her.

"Valena?" he asked. "Is that you?"

"Y-Yes, ser," she replied with a hesitant smile. "I'm flattered that you remember."

"Wow!" He grinned and unsteadily attempted to push himself out of the slouch he had fallen into. "I'm glad to see you're alive and well. I take it you made it out of the castle fine?"

She looped an arm around one of his and, with a firm pull, helped him the last few inches he needed to properly sit up. The moment he settled, she released him and jumped back a foot, looking at her arm as though it were a stranger.

He scratched his head in confusion at her behavior. "Valena? Miss?"

She started again, and he worried for a moment that she might continue on jumping until she hit the opposite wall. But, thankfully, she calmed after a moment and smiled again. "Oh, yes, I made it out of the castle just fine," she answered at last. "My father was overjoyed to see me. We're both so grateful for your heroic efforts, ser knight. Really, we are!"

He flushed and did his best not to shrink back in his seat from the praise and honorifics. "You're welcome," he replied weakly. "And, uh, sorry about not checking on you afterwards. Things got kind of busy here, and I'm afraid I really haven't had a chance yet to see how everyone is holding up."

But the woman didn't seem to take any offense to this. Instead, she simply clasped her hands together in front of her and continued smiling. "I understand completely, ser knight," she said. "Everyone is so thankful you stayed to help the village when you did, truly! Lady Isolde couldn't be more pleased to have her son back."

He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced away as shyness bubbled up inside of him. He would have given almost anything to have Solona there with him to help deflect the attention some. Or maybe Zevran would have worked just as well in this case.

"Er, thank you, again," he replied. "But, really, it wasn't only me. Everyone – my companions, the townsfolk, the Circle, Bann Teagan – pitched in to help." He guessed even Morrigan deserved a bit of appreciation for her assistance, however grudgingly offered it had been. "It was really all of them working together that made this possible, not just me. But, thank you, still. Your appreciation is, well, much appreciated!"

Valena seemed to consider this for a moment, clasping her hands tighter and tilting her head in thought, and Alistair hoped that to be the last of the matter. Just to be safe, though, he asked, "So, was there something in particular you needed?" Then, with a grin, he added, "Or was I just snoring really loudly?"

The young woman vehemently shook her head. "Oh, no! I mean, no, you weren't snoring at all. It's just… Well, I thought you might like a chance to clean up a bit after all that, so I prepared a bath for you."

His eyes widened in surprise. "A bath? I had thought all of the water was being used to clean the castle right now."

She flushed slightly under his scrutiny and replied, "Well, yes, but I set some aside and heated it just for you. I'm sure the housekeeper will understand, if she notices."

The thought of taking a real bath – and a hot one at that – nearly had him melting in his seat. He quickly scrambled to his feet and said, "Maker, yes, please! Lead the way, good lady."

Her face reddened further in response before she turned to escort him, but Alistair paid it no mind. He was much too focused on the promise of a marvelous, steaming-hot soak to soothe all of his cares away, and, of course, the dirt and blood. He hardly even noticed when she began talking again, something about how courageous he was and if he might have some time he could share with her after her shift was over, but he just nodded and hummed along.

As they passed near some windows overlooking the central courtyard, he saw Sten practicing outside with his sword on a makeshift dummy. The giant had been acting strange – almost pleased, he would say, if such a thing could be ascribed to the cold man – ever since Solona had returned to him with a sword from Dwyn before the defense of Redcliffe. She had tried to explain to him what was so important about the blade, something about an "asala" and being able to return home. But, since Sten rarely spoke with him, much less about any subjects even relating to homes, it had all more or less gone in one ear and then out the other.

There was also a small, white flower in the qunari's hair. He wondered when that had gotten there. It certainly hadn't been before the fight against the undead, had it? And, perhaps more importantly, who'd had the death wish to put it there in the first place?

And why hadn't he removed it yet?

Alistair shook his head. He would wonder about that later. Right now there was a bath calling his name somewhere in the castle in a lovely, sonorous, bath-y way, and he wouldn't miss it for the world.

When they stepped down the stairs to the main hall, he was glad to find it emptier than it had been before. The crowd had cleared out, leaving just a few servants to clean up the space. One glanced up as they entered, but after a quick nod, she returned to her scrubbing. In short time, they passed through and into the servants' quarters. There, Valena led him down a long hallway, which he remembered after a moment eventually connected to the kitchen and larder. His stomach growled again.

However, she stopped short of either of those rooms, instead opening the door to a chamber more suited for storage. Inside, he discovered it was mostly empty, save for one thing:

The bath.

It was a rather small, wooden tub, probably meant more for washing clothes than washing people, but the tendrils of steam rising off the water inside it convinced him the size would be well worth the trouble. He hurriedly reached down and started unbuckling his armor. That was, until a tiny "Eep!" from behind him reminded him that he still had company.

He turned to Valena, who stood near the door blushing. "Oh! Um, sorry about the lack of warning," he said with a nervous laugh. "I swear, I'm wearing clothing under all of this, really!"

The young woman quickly nodded. "Y-Yes, of course!"

He reached for the strap to a pauldron, giving a frustrated huff when he couldn't quite reach the buckle. A moment later, he felt the armor piece loosen, and he caught it in his hand before it dropped. He turned to find Valena beside him, a flush still on her face.

He smiled at her. "Thank you. Do you think you could help me with the rest of this?"

Her blush darkened. "C-Certainly!"

They made short work of his remaining armor, carefully setting each piece and the padding aside on the floor. He knew he'd have to polish and wash them all sooner or later, but for now he desired nothing more than to relax and get clean himself. Once he'd stripped to his plain clothes, he turned and smiled at Valena again. "Thank you very much for all of your help. And the bath, especially! I really appreciate it."

The young woman clasped her hands together and smiled back. "You're q-quite welcome, ser knight." She stepped back into the hallway and, nodding to the shelves next to the door, said, "P-Please help yourself to any of the soaps and towels; they're just in the cabinet there. I'll, uh, bring down some fresh clothes for you to wear."

And then she was gone, shutting the door and running down the hall, the slap of her shoes against the stone floor a rapid beat.

Alistair rubbed his neck again in bewilderment at the woman's behavior. It had been quite odd, he thought, all of her blushing and stuttering and looking as though she were about to trip over her own two feet. He hadn't frightened her, had he? Or was it because he probably looked a bit of a fright himself, his hair sticking every which way, shadows under his eyes, and stubble all along his jaw? Sure, he knew he didn't look terribly great after a few days – or so – of not bathing, but he'd certainly never sent someone running at the mere sight before.

He pulled off his shirt and threw it aside, and then he looked down at his chest and ran his hands along his back in search of anything unusual. But all he felt were the thin lines of scars crisscrossing his body, a couple of which were still sensitive and pink after being dealt during the last battle and then hurriedly healed.

With a shrug, he shucked off the rest of his clothing and slipped into the steaming bath, and after that he couldn't be bothered to think of the matter anymore. The water was just right, hot enough to bring a flush to his skin but not so hot as to burn him, and he hardly felt the edges of the basin digging into his legs and ribs. Cupping his hands, he gathered up some of the water and brought it up to cascade down his head and shoulders. After a few rounds of that, he already began to feel significantly rejuvenated.

In that room, with only the heated water around him and the rays of the afternoon sun peeking through a thin window set high near the ceiling, he forgot about time and the fact that there was a world outside the door at all. There, the memories of the past few days – even the whole Blight – grew surreal. The anger he felt towards the blood mage, Jowan, who had started all of the mess at Redcliffe – well, perhaps not started, but certainly _helped_ – lessened a little under the penetrating warmth of the bath.

He wondered why Solona had told the man to leave and not come back. It was true, what Wynne had said; the blood mage was at least partly responsible for what had happened, so what sense had there been in telling him to go? He considered the frightening possibility that the man had Solona under some sort of thrall magic. But, he hadn't felt anything during the encounter, nor had he felt anything remotely blood-magey the entire time he'd known her.

Or perhaps it was the kicked-puppy eyes the man kept giving everyone. Blast, he'd had no idea how powerful those things were.

But it was too late now, he reminded himself. The man had already run far away, vanishing under the bleak rays of dawn. He'd have to get his answers from Lady Isolde and what little Connor could remember, after things had settled and people had calmed.

He sunk a little further into the tub at the thought of talking with Isolde at all. The woman was a _witch_, he was still sure, just a sneakier one than Morrigan.

After he had scrubbed himself clean and washed his hair, he leaned back and hung his lower legs over the side and in the cool air to give himself more room. His eyes drifted closed several times as he let his mind wander, but he managed to shake himself back awake whenever he did.

Eventually, the water cooled, and Alistair felt a chill creeping up his limbs. He pulled himself out of the basin, toweled off, and, discovering clean clothes left outside the door, dressed. After a little more searching, he even found a razor and mirror, and he managed to shave off the stubble that had grown in. Then, his stomach making its dissatisfaction known yet again with a loud and entirely too long growl, he left the room and headed for the kitchen at long last.

Miraculously, the room was absent of any people, save for one. Even more miraculously, though, that one person was Solona herself!

Well, her and the hound.

Captain barked the moment he entered, alerting her to his presence. And then proceeded to excitedly run laps around him, as if just to make the point clearer.

"Alistair!" Solona cried. After setting aside the plate of food she'd been gathering, she very nearly skipped over to him and gave him a hug. "I'm so happy to see you!"

He returned the gesture, trying not to tear up from the relief that flooded him. "Maker's breath," he said, "I'm so happy to see you, too!" He saw that, while she had washed her head, hair, and hands as best as she could, her clothes were still wrinkled and stained with blood and grime. Right then, he couldn't have been happier to see anything else, knowing she was alive and well. "So, _so_ happy," he sighed.

He squeezed her tight and nuzzled her, rubbing his chin against the crown of her head. And, deciding to the Void with it, he bent down and kissed her. And then kissed her again and again, even as she giggled and squirmed against him.

The hound, apparently satisfied with their delight in one another, gave one more bark before settling down to gnaw on a bone.

With a light laugh, Solona pressed her hands against Alistair's chest and pushed away. Feeling invigorated again for the first time in what seemed like ages, he gave a playful growl and pursued her. Food could wait, he decided. For now, he could sustain himself on just cuddles, laughs, and kisses.

And he didn't _care_ how stupid that sounded either.

But Solona pushed him away again with a teasing smile. "Ah-ah-ah," she said, wagging a finger at him. "What will your new sweetheart think, letting me take up all your affection? You should invite her to join us."

He froze mid-step at her words. "'New sweetheart'?" he nearly choked. "What are you talking about? I… But, you're my…"

"Oh, don't you remember?" she asked, her brow arched. "You agreed to go on a date with Valena tonight. I overheard her talking about it with some of the maids. She sounded so excited!"

His eyes widened at the memory of walking through the halls with the young woman and only half-listening to her talk. He hadn't really been paying any attention. He hadn't _known_… "I-It's not anything, I swear!" he said, his heart skipping in a panic. "I didn't mean to-"

But Solona just put a fingertip to his lips and shushed him. "It's all right, _ser knight_. I'm sure that there's more than enough of you for both her and me," she teased. "I'll even come along to help you out, give you pointers, provide romantic lighting, those sorts of things. I'll also try out this adjustment I've been working on for the illumination spell! I'm pretty sure it won't blind you."

A blush crept up his neck, and he frowned and pushed her hand away. "Has Zevran been rubbing off on you?" he asked. "Because I could swear you sound just like him right now."

"Mayyybe," she sang with a smile.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "All right, that's it." Before she could flee, he gathered her up into his arms and started down the hallway he'd come. "I think I can help clean out all those _dirty_ thoughts you're having."

She laughed as he carried her over to the room he'd been in not a few minutes before, and he grinned in turn, knowing she wouldn't be laughing for long. Unless the servants had already emptied the bath, he knew a source for cold water that would be perfect for banishing such ideas.

He certainly _liked_ Solona, yes, but he still liked teasing her as well, fireballs or no.

But as both of their stomachs loudly growled at the threshold of the storage room, he stopped and realized something more important than any form of revenge.

"Food," he said. "Food first, then we talk."

As he reversed direction back to the kitchen, Solona wound an arm around his neck with a groan. "I couldn't agree more."


	19. Pinpointed Penchants

Author's Notes: Hello, everyone! Yes, I finally updated this story! I'm really sorry about how long I kept you all waiting. After some time and the stress of dealing with various life problems, I found myself rewriting this chapter over and over and over again. I felt as though I just couldn't get it right. As I did, I also went through and revised every single chapter already out, most especially the last few chapters (of which chapter eighteen was almost entirely rewritten). But now it's finally done! And, looking on the bright side, I think I have most of the material for the next chapter already done. So, with any luck, I'll have that finished and posted before long as well.

Again, thank you so much for your patience and support, everyone! It's always much appreciated. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 19: Pinpointed Penchants

By the time they finally left Redcliffe, Alistair could hardly believe the difference those few days had made. Several inches of snow coated the ground, and if the continuing fall of downy flakes were anything to go by, several more would accumulate before evening. The last of the leaves had also fallen, their remnants now buried underneath the blanket of white. The naked trees clawed at the slate-grey sky, and for all appearances it seemed a dreary day to set out.

So, the usual Fereldan weather, in other words.

And yet he was honestly quite happy. Actually, everyone seemed rather content. No one complained, even as they steadily marched away from what was likely their last chance at a real bed for weeks.

Perhaps it was helped by the fact that what would have been a muddy road was frozen solid, meaning no messy clothes, stuck carts, and disappeared boots – things that would always send the mood of their group plummeting and the insults flying. It also meant that they made quicker time, which hopefully would translate to fewer days on the road and thus out in the cold. Well, as long as they weren't waylaid by bandits or thugs. He was starting to wonder if there were actually more of them than the darkspawn.

Right now, though, no one argued or baited one another, and he was more than willing to take a small victory in that alone. Aside from some small conversations here and there, everyone was silent and smiling – or at least not scowling – as they gazed at their snowy surroundings in a sort of rapt serenity.

Well, everyone except Zevran.

The elf lingered at the back of their group, muttering darkly to himself as he tugged on his fourth – fifth? – layer of coats. Leliana earlier had tried to offer some words of comfort, but a cool look swiftly silenced that effort. Then Solona, after several long, concerned glances, dropped back to walk beside him. Following a few hushed words in exchange, she raised her hands towards the pile of clothing on his back and cast a gentle fire spell, and Zevran visibly melted in delight.

Alistair chuckled, and the elf shot him a pointed glare. He waited tensely, expecting some sort of barb or other remark. But then the assassin sneezed and returned to his grumbling, and the feeling passed.

It was almost strange, Alistair thought. Not Zevran's sneezing; he'd been doing that every so often since they'd started out that morning, and it was practically the only thing that interrupted his grousing.

No, he meant the sense of happiness, of contentment, of _relief_. In contrast to all of the chaos that had swept over them the past few days, it almost felt like a dream. Or like waking from a nightmare he wasn't sure wouldn't come back as soon as he closed his eyes.

He knew it could have gone so much worse. Redcliffe had been on the brink of annihilation, and yet they had managed to pull through. Not a single soul had perished the night of the village's defense, even. There had been close calls, of course. Wynne had collapsed briefly during the battle, and for a moment he'd feared she had pushed herself to injury or worse, but then she had risen, shaken her head, and proceeded on as though nothing had happened. Aside from several men who'd gotten a few nasty gashes, that had been the worst, and no more people had died.

And to have Lady Isolde and Connor safe once more… If he'd been a very religious man, he would have been tempted to say it was all a miracle. But that wasn't true, because he knew who had done it. When Solona had said she was going into the Fade, he'd been so scared that he might lose her. Against the odds and the fatigue, however, she'd pushed through and defeated the demon. Rather unsurprisingly, after a bath and a meal, she'd collapsed right back into bed and slept the rest of the day. But, still, he was grateful. _Very_ grateful.

He cast a furtive glance about their group, making sure no one was watching, before reaching down the collar of his shirt and pulling out a silver amulet.

It was aged and worn, the lines of the original emblem barely visible amidst the many more lines and cracks that adorned it. When tilted against the light just right, though, he could make out the worn design of a flame – Andraste's flame. It'd been years since he last had seen the necklace, but he'd known without a doubt when that symbol flashed into view what it was: his mother's amulet. The one he thought he'd lost for good after smashing it in a fit of rage and grief against a wall.

But Arl Eamon had apparently, at some point over the years, pieced it back together. Then, in the mess of rubble and broken furniture throughout the castle, Solona had somehow found it. She'd said she had chanced upon it in the arl's study, in one of the desk drawers, while penning a letter to Dagna of her acceptance into the Circle Tower.

But Alistair didn't much care for the particulars of how she had happened upon it, because she had _found_ it and, what's more, she had even _remembered_ it at all. As much as losing it had plagued him, he had spoken of it only two or three times to her. In the abbey, he'd gotten so used to being ignored or overlooked that he hadn't really expected her to pay such a small mention much mind. But to know that she had, and not only that but to know she had actively _continued_ to think of and look for it…

Wow.

Just… wow!

He laughed, not because anything was particularly funny, but because he felt so genuinely _glad_ for once. The last time he could recall feeling so pleased was when Duncan had recruited him, and even that had greatly been from relief. _This_, though – this feeling that flooded him with warmth in a way that had nothing to do with magic, or, rather, perhaps it was magic of another sort altogether (and he didn't care how cheesy that sounded) – it made him…

Happy. Indescribably happy.

He'd started to believe some fairytale endings were possible, but perhaps his very _life_ was turning into a fairytale. In which case, was this the part when the music started and everyone began dancing? Because he was game!

"Are you feeling well, Alistair?" an Orlesian-accented voice asked from next to him. "You are acting a little… oddly."

Alistair flushed and quickly stuffed the necklace back down the front of his shirt. Then he turned to look at Leliana with a nervous smile. "Oh, me?" he replied. "I'm fine! Happy as a clam." A wayward thought suddenly spun out of the frolicking threads of his mind, and he added, "Isn't that phrase – 'happy as a clam' – rather odd? How happy do you suppose clams can be? I mean, don't they live in mud most of their lives?"

The sister simply looked at him with a round-eyed expression.

He flushed and cleared his throat. "Er, yes, I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

She giggled and shook her head with a smile. "You've been sighing and smiling every other minute since we left Redcliffe, and now you are laughing at nothing that I can tell." She paused. "And making strange remarks."

His face reddened further, and he glanced away, which didn't help, as his eyes landed on the object of his aforementioned "sighing and smiling." Solona had picked up her pace again to walk within the group rather than at the back. She now strode next to the horse, affectionately patting it on the neck and feeding it carrots every so often. It put her at a mere few feet from himself, and he realized with a renewed blush that he could simply reach out and take her hand, maybe even give her a quick kiss on the cheek, and no one but he and she would be the wiser.

"Alistair?"

Well, he, she, and Leliana.

"What?" he said – almost shouted, rather – in surprise. He quickly pulled his gaze back to the lay sister. "I wasn't doing anything, or really even thinking anything, I swear!"

Leliana giggled again. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Being in love is a wonderful thing, no?" She gave a wistful sigh. "Oh, such a feeling to sweep you off your feet and carry you away! To make every day brighter and more wondrous than the day before!"

He gave a weak laugh. "Right. I'm, uh… just going to go hide under a rock once we set up camp, if that's all right with everyone else."

She giggled again but fortunately let off teasing him further. Which was just as well, because he felt he'd already pretty well dug himself into a hole as a bumbling fool. All they needed to do now was set up a sign and start charging, and they'd have their very own roadside attraction.

_Come one, come all, and see Alistair the Idiot, unable to walk two feet without tripping over his own! See him for a few bits, prod him for fifty, and tomatoes a silver each!_

Morrigan would probably like that.

He smiled sheepishly and ran a hand through his hair, feeling a little amused by the thought himself. Then he turned his eyes back in Solona's direction – subtly this time, he hoped; very, _very_ subtly – just for a glance, a half-lidded longing look, or, to the Void with it, a shamelessly lovesick sigh.

And found himself surprisingly the object of a tawny gaze already.

Morrigan snapped her eyes back to the front of their group and to the road as soon as he had, so quickly he almost missed her look entirely. But he was sure of it, that those yellow eyes had been boring into him as though he were a book of spells or other witchy things.

What other sorts of things would a witch get up to with a book? He wasn't sure he wanted to think on it; he saw her spending enough time with that creepy, black grimoire of hers in the evening as it was anyway.

But she _had_ been looking at him a lot these past few days. Or studying, rather. Her glances bore none of the coy heat or bashful warmth that Solona's had, and thank the Maker for that. They were cold and considering, with an uneasiness that pinched the corners of her eyes. He was almost tempted to simply march over and ask what she wanted from him already.

Key word being _almost_. He wasn't quite that desperate to become former-templar toast.

He decided the best thing to do was to not dwell on it. He had other, much more important things to focus on, like finding that aforementioned rock to hide under.

After setting up camp that evening, Alistair figured himself finally safe from whatever "plan" the witch initially had in mind. In the flickering light of the fire, which danced and skipped across the bare trees, he hadn't caught her looking at him even once, and she hadn't so much as glanced in his general direction the rest of their march earlier that day.

Not to say that meant _he_ was looking at _her_ too much now. Absolutely not!

He leaned back and sighed from where he sat near the outskirts of camp with a bucket of water and a stack of dirty dishes. His turn tonight, apparently. He wouldn't have minded cooking instead, ever since discovering that cheese fondue was indeed an option, but Solona had cooked that evening and that was more than fine by him as well.

_Solona._

With another, much happier sigh than the last, he pulled out the amulet from underneath the collar of his shirt again. The metal was warm to touch from having hung about his neck all day long, and, even with the multitude of branches blocking out what little moonlight there was, he could still slowly run his thumb across the surface to feel its design amidst the cracks.

He wondered, amongst all the other long-lost things the mage had found along their journey, if it could have been but a matter of time before she found this as well. Perhaps stumbling upon the hidden or irretrievable was another so-called "mage talent"? Maybe there was even a spell for it. If so, he could have used it the last time they had done laundry; he was still missing a sock. A lucky one, too!

Although he could do without her "finding" other lovers for him. Even though he had let Valena down – very gently and very carefully, he might add – Solona hadn't yet ceased teasing him about it from time to time, and in particular his embarrassment over it.

He had been _exhausted_, all right? Someone could have shoved a mug full of dwarven ale in front of him, and he would have drunk it without question, he had been so tired.

The teasing was becoming such that he was starting to wonder if she was actually _half-serious_ about there being a third person in their relationship. Which, to answer that, was a "no": no, no, a hundred times _no, absolutely not_. There were _boundaries_ about this sort of thing, after all!

Though Zevran apparently didn't believe so, and with the long evenings Solona and Leliana spent together, trading whispers and quiet laughs, he was starting to half-wonder about the sister as well.

He shook his head with some exasperation and, just as he moved to slip the necklace back under his shirt once more, he heard it: the ominous tap of a boot against the ground, approximately three feet in front of him, slightly to the left, and…

He looked up.

"I have a question for you, Alistair. A wonder, if you will."

Morrigan, of course. _Blast_.

"Can't you go and, I don't know, share it with someone else?" he replied.

"No."

He contemplated standing up to face her, but at the risk of appearing scared he simply took up a bowl and began cleaning it instead. Much better to look overconfident than cowardly around her of all their companions, he knew. Besides which, she wasn't readying to cast a fireball or lightning at him. Yet, anyway.

She watched him and waited.

After nearly a minute of hoping _please, please, _please_ turn around and leave_, he heaved a sigh and set the dish down. "What is it, Morrigan?"

She didn't immediately answer, as if uncertain or contemplating world domination – he was never really sure with her. She uncrossed her arms and shifted her weight from one foot to the other before crossing them again. Then, finally, she said, "You and… Solona." She paused again, and he felt a touch of dread creep into his stomach. "Is it permissible for two Grey Wardens to… Oh, what is the word I search for?"

"Caboodle?" he offered with an uneasy grin.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Fraternize."

He shrugged. "What's wrong with fraternizing?"

She shifted her weight back to her other foot. "It seems most undisciplined, for an organization that claims it will do whatever is necessary to end the darkspawn threat."

He rolled his eyes at her. "One thing has nothing to do with the other."

"Oh no?" she replied, an arch smile curling at the corner of her lips. "And what if a Grey Warden were forced to choose between the Warden he loved and ending the Blight? What would his choice be?"

The thought sent him reeling. A… choice? Who had ever said there would be a choice involved in this Blight business? And especially _that_ sort of choice? There were choices like splintmail or plate armor, second or third watch at night, beef or pork for dinner. But _that_ sort of choice? That was just hitting below the belt!

"That is a… a _ridiculous_ question," he snapped.

But the witch simply smirked. "And I have my answer. Most kind of you."

With that, she turned on her heel and left to return to her corner of camp, leaving him to glare at her receding form.

A choice between Solona and… what, exactly? What sort of dire matter would keep them from ending the Blight? Well, there was always the possibility of dying in a fight somewhere along the way, but that was rather a given and certainly not a "choice." So what manner of thing would force him to choose, and how would he even get a vote in it at all? The archdemon certainly wasn't going to call an assembly and ask how many people wanted it dead, after all.

No, he was certain Duncan would have told him of any such thing. He had told him about the nightmares, the shortened lifespan, and even the Calling. He couldn't have left out something like _that_ of all things. Morrigan had just been trying to irritate him, that was all. To what ends, he didn't know, nor did he much care. If she could get a rise out of him from arguing over the color of the sky, he had a feeling she would.

With a frown, Alistair returned to scrubbing the dishes next to him clean.

As he did, the earlier musing on lost belongings resurfaced in his mind, though not quite as fondly as he'd just been thinking. He still wouldn't have been surprised to learn that mages were preternaturally talented at finding things. It would explain how bizarre artifacts just "cropped up" in the Circles whenever they did a little spring cleaning, or how Wynne kept coming across his misplaced clothes, much to her vexation. It would also explain how Flemeth had somehow found the Grey Warden treaties in the tangle of vine-choked ruins and then additionally found Solona and himself in the Tower of Ishal amidst the raging battle.

But now he wondered if certain mages were also good at finding one's weak spots. If so, he hoped Morrigan didn't find any others anytime soon.


	20. Mana Mashes

Author's Notes: Hi, everyone! Sorry for the long wait again. The chapter I had thought I'd be using ended up getting pushed back, and I'm not sure when, or if, I'll be using that material. There have also been some rather major life changes coming that I need to prepare for. Rest assured I am still working on this story, though - and to show for it, here's another chapter!

Again, I want to thank everyone who took the time to leave a review. Your feedback is very important to me, and I appreciate it immensely. And thank you to everyone still following along after all this time! Your support means so much.

In this chapter, we return to Ostagar, things get a bit dark, and Wynne gets some time to shine. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 20: Mana Mashes

At some point, Alistair became aware that they were not heading west at all, but rather south. Yes, south – back into the cold, dark Korcari Wilds, back into the heart of the darkspawn horde, back into the bloody ruin that was Ostagar.

It was not before they had deviated from the Imperial Highway, trading the ease of the well-worn, open road to the cover of overgrown paths and old hunting trails. No, that decision had been made by Loghain, and none of them had had much of a say in it. News of their influence at Orzammar, no doubt sped by their victory at Redcliffe, had spread, reaching the capital, and the teyrn-turned-regent had reacted swiftly and unflinchingly to their continued existence with the answer he knew best: arms.

It had not been the first group of soldiers – taken by surprise and easily defeated – that forced them into the forest, but rather the ones that followed – the counter-ambush and the sudden push from the side. Their wounds, though not severe, had been substantial, and they had retreated. Then the discovery of the road blockade back the way they had come drove them into outright hiding.

For all that he loathed the teyrn, he could not forget the man's gift with war.

He could only hope that Bann Teagan and Redcliffe's forces hadn't forgotten either. With the village now out of reach, they wouldn't be able to come to its aid should the teyrn decide to besiege it. He prayed the man would not resort to such rash, cruel tactics. Knowing the teyrn's recent lack of sense, he dared not assume.

And so they had pushed on: Shale at the front forging the path, then him, Sten, and Oghren shortly behind with blades to clear the remnants. The rest followed, aiding the horse and the cart over roots and rocks when needed. Periodically, Solona would halt them to check some secret sign or landmark, he could only suppose from a mage's past escape attempt, before deciding their course with a firm nod and leading them on.

Really, just how many places had this "Anders" fellow been?

But he was grateful for it all the same, because without it they could have easily ended up walking in circles in the dark forest. And he dared not trust Morrigan with the task of finding their way. For all she boasted about, well, _everything_, he distinctly recalled her mentioning that she had never wandered far from Flemeth's hut, sneaking off to Lothering on the rare occasion at the farthest. And she had refused to survey their surroundings as a bird ever since Leliana had mistaken her for a real one and tried to shoot her.

If the lay sister hadn't already learned to sleep with her eyes open from the chantry sermons, he imagined she was learning to now.

Aside from all that, he also still had his suspicions of the witch, much to Solona's long-suffering sighs whenever he brought it up with her. More so ever since his last conversation with her. The woman never did anything "just because"; he was sure she wouldn't even help set up tents or cook meals if not for the fact that no one would show her such a kindness in return. That, and if she didn't know that Wynne would lecture her later for it.

Not to mention he still had no idea why Morrigan was following them at all. She didn't strike him as the sort to join anyone for a cause that didn't directly benefit her, not even for the sake of what might pass as "adventure." More likely, she had some greater scheme in mind for them. What scheme specifically, he couldn't say. Perhaps she meant to cook them in a stew and simply hadn't enough salt yet.

But the whole "Warden stew" thing currently wasn't his most pressing concern. No, it was this ominous "south" business.

As it were, "south" wasn't all that inherently bad, if one liked uncharted territories, frozen wastelands, and Maker knew what beasts that lived there. But, right now, it was full of darkspawn, and that was enough to cancel any holiday trip.

And, speaking of darkspawn, it was they who tipped him off. Not _literally_ – of course no darkspawn had walked into camp and said, "Excuse me, but you appear to be approaching our horde. Mind showing yourself out?" No, he meant the whole Grey Warden bit, sensing the Taint and doom and all that. Just because he didn't go around shouting he was a Grey Warden didn't mean he had forgotten he was one.

In addition to that, there was the not-so-small fact that they'd encountered several groups of darkspawn in just the past two days alone. Large ones, at that, and with ogres. One typically didn't go around running into ogres, if he recalled correctly. And he _still_ hadn't quite managed to wash off all of the filth and blood from his armor.

He scrubbed at his chestplate harder from where he sat on a rock near the evening's campfire. But the stains refused to rub off, and, with a defeated sigh, he dropped both the armor and the cleaning cloth to the ground next to him.

Instead, he looked around, hoping to catch sight of Solona. He couldn't hear any arguments, fights, or worse going on, and he hadn't for the past hour, so presumably she wasn't busy quelling them. Which then, hopefully, meant he could sneak a word or two with her. If she hadn't already fallen asleep in her tent.

Even with the whole relationship thing going on, they hadn't had many opportunities to spend time alone together, particularly in the past week. Between the days spent hacking their way through the forest to the nights of pitching tents side-by-side in fear of darkspawn attacks, they'd barely had the time or space for a private conversation, much less a kiss, since Redcliffe.

He wasn't _angry_ with Solona, per se. More of just confused, with a hefty dose of worry. Worry was _good_; worry was what kept them alive, rather than on the wrong end of a darkspawn sword. As much as Solona didn't seem to mind running headlong into battle, _he_ nearly had a heart attack every time she did.

He just wanted to hear some sort of justification for traveling through the middle of a darkspawn horde. Something besides, "It's the last place Loghain would think to look for us!" There were _reasons_ why no one thought to look in those. Many of them involved death, and the rest of them involved things he didn't want to dwell on.

Alistair swept his eyes about the camp one last time before heaving another sigh. No sign of the mage. Perhaps the matter could wait till tomorrow.

Then Solona plopped herself down next to him. "Whew! What a day, eh?"

He jumped. "Gah!"

"Oh, I'm sorry! Did I surprise you?" she said.

_Again_, he wanted to add. And he doubted she was truly sorry, not with a grin like that on her face.

_Teasing mage_, he thought.

He flushed and averted his eyes, resisting the temptation to make some sort of witty reply. Or, since no one seemed to be watching, just take her in his arms, kiss her, and forget about everything else; that was pretty tempting, too. _Focus, Alistair_, he told himself. _Be kind, but firm. This is important._

He ran his fingers through his hair and, with a steadying breath, turned back to her. "Solona," he said, "is there something you want to tell me?"

The smile on her lips faded, and she looked away and tugged a lock of hair behind her ear. For a moment, he feared that she might try to brush the matter away with a joke or not answer at all, and he'd have try again with a more pointed question.

But then, with a sigh, she said, "I'm sorry, Alistair. I should have told you sooner. We're… We're headed to Ostagar."

He took another deep breath to chase away the sudden tightness in his chest. "This isn't a tactic to avoid Loghain's forces either, is it?"

She chewed on her bottom lip. "No," she answered. "I hadn't originally planned to go this way, though. I had hoped we could make it to Denerim unimpeded, but once we began to stray south… Well…"

He waited for her to go on, but she didn't. When the silence began to linger, he said, "Why?"

She didn't reply immediately. Instead, she reached into the satchel at her side and dug around in it for several moments before pulling out a small, thin object that shone dully in the firelight.

"A key?" he asked. "What to?"

"The Magi stores at Ostagar," she said. "Specifically, to a chest that was being guarded when I was there last. I couldn't get it to it then, obviously, but _now_…"

He arched an eyebrow at her. "How did you get this key, even?"

A grin curled the corners of her lips. "I… had my sources. Well, one source." Then, as suddenly as before, the grin vanished. "And he didn't have a need for it anymore." With a shake of her head, she continued, "Anyway, that's not important. What's important is in the chest."

"Important enough to risk our lives over it?"

She hesitated and then released a deep breath. "I… I hope so," she said. "I can't _guarantee_ it, but I do know, whatever the Circle brought, it's valuable and, since they brought it to a battle, most likely very powerful, too." Something niggled at the back of his mind, a worry that she wasn't telling him the entire truth, but it was vague and slipped away. "A lot of things were left at Ostagar," she continued, her gaze distant as she ran a finger along the edge of the key. "Armor, weapons, poultices… This could be our chance to sneak in and take what we can."

He shook his head slightly, a little in disbelief of the notion that they'd simply walk in and stock up like one might do during a trip to the market.

But there was an appeal to it, too, one that had nothing to do with swords, shields, or potions. An image flashed in his mind – that of Duncan, the firm set of his jaw, his brown eyes yet warm, as he ordered them to the Tower of Ishal, the last time he ever ordered them – and it lit in him a great rage and sorrow almost as fresh as when he had woken in Flemeth's tent and first realized, like a deep wound never healed, only hid.

He choked back a sob and pressed a hand to his face to wipe away the sudden tears at the corners of his eyes. "C-Can we… I mean, I…"

He didn't even know what specifically he was asking for. Revenge against the darkspawn who had killed Duncan? Even if they could pick them out, it would be less an act of vengeance than it would an attempt to shout at the wind for knocking one's house down. The darkspawn didn't think; they just _were_. Some memento to keep of the man, then, or perhaps something to burn or bury, something to say to any who came after, "A great man once lived, and here he died for us all"? In the face of a Blight, any such sentiment seemed not only foolish but another chance to get them killed as well, and they really didn't need more of those.

But Solona seemed to understand anyway, as she gently pulled his hand away and kissed his wet cheek. "Of course, Alistair."

And so that was how he found himself several days later darting between trees and tiptoeing around the ruins of Ostagar with Solona, Wynne, and Zevran a few steps behind. The ancient stone fortress towered over them, and the smells of pine and juniper were sharp in the frosty air, as was the rank odor of darkspawn. They moved slowly, the only sounds of their presence their quiet breaths and the soft crunching of their boots in the snow.

Even with the battle long over, the ruins were packed with darkspawn. Of those they saw, many were mere genlocks and hurlock grunts, most likely left to defend their foothold on the fort. Though they saw but a few shrieks and emissaries, that didn't mean there weren't more lurking out of sight. It still paid to be on their guard, and they avoided fights where possible, sticking to the shadows and dodging patrols.

Their backs flat against a crumbling wall, they watched through a crack in the mortar as a small group of hurlocks passed by on the other side. One stopped briefly to sniff the air, and they tensed, wondering if it would sound the alarm. But, after a moment, it shook its head and sped its steps to catch up with the rest of its troop.

At first, Alistair had worried Solona and he would stick out like sore thumbs with the Taint flowing in their blood. But, after several hours of sneaking through the ruins with little conflict, he surmised the sheer number of darkspawn about had numbed the horde's sensitivity to intruders. He knew he certainly began to feel dizzy if he focused too much on it. By the way Solona sometimes furrowed her brow and shut her eyes for as long as several minutes, he had no doubt she felt the same, if not worse.

After the darkspawn had gone out of hearing range, Zevran rubbed his hands against his sides and hissed, "And here I had thought Ferelden couldn't get any colder after the Frostback Mountains. I stand corrected."

Alistair gritted his teeth against an exasperated sigh. Rather than remind the elf for the umpteenth time that he could have stayed at camp where there was, after all, a camp_fire_, he turned to Solona. "How much farther to the Magi encampment?" he asked.

She rubbed a temple and closed her eyes in thought. "I… I think it's just a few more hills over. Before the bridge."

"If I remember correctly," Wynne added, "the quartermaster also used to be over that way. There may yet be some equipment we could salvage there as well."

With a nod, Alistair slipped partway through the crack in the wall, careful not to jostle any of the stones on either side, and looked around. Satisfied he could neither see nor sense any darkspawn nearby, he waved back to the others before sliding the rest of the way through.

And so they cautiously proceeded on, until they finally reached the heart of the western side of the fortress, their gear a little worse for wear. They had run into several small patrols of darkspawn along the way, but, fortunately, it seemed as though none of their members had escaped to alert more. Still, Alistair knew better than to linger; it wouldn't be long before another group came to see why they had not returned.

Solona kneeled amongst the remnants of the Magi stores, sifting through heaps of empty flasks, tattered cloth, and broken boxes half-buried in snow with quiet but quick efficiency. On the other side of the clearing, Zevran and Wynne searched what had once been the quartermaster's site. Alistair paced the outer edges, watching for the telltale shuffling forms of darkspawn or any sign that they had been spotted.

So far, so good – their efforts thus far had produced a collection of serviceable weaponry, over a dozen lyrium potions, and several packages' worth of poultice supplies. In the locked Magi chest, they found a powerful stave, which Solona immediately set to using.

They had also found some rather… _interesting_ papers, over in what remained of King Cailan's campsite. He could hardly believe that the king had been considering a permanent alliance with Orlais, much less that Arl Eamon had actively encouraged it. Though such matters paled in the face of a Blight, the peoples of Orlais and Ferelden had been at each other's throats but a generation ago. To ally with a former enemy so soon seemed… naïve, if not outright reckless. And to set Queen Anora aside, simply on account of a lack of an heir?

Alistair nervously traced the edge of his sword's hilt with a thumb. What if Arl Eamon _did_ want him to take up the mantle of king? Even if he were able to marry Solona, they were both Grey Wardens, and any children between them were all but impossible. Would the arl try to come between him and Solona then, as he had done with Cailan and Anora?

His musings were cut short when Wynne called to him. They had finished scavenging what they could, and it was time to return to camp. He glanced over their findings as they packed them away, and disappointment washed over him when he recognized none of them had belonged to Duncan. He said nothing, though; he had known it would be a long shot from the start. They soon finished distributing the loads of gear amongst themselves and began to head back the way they'd come.

It was quiet, almost eerily quiet, as they filed down the hill. Thus, as they turned around a copse of trees, Alistair was only half-surprised at the sight of darkspawn blocking their path. What surprised him more was the number: he estimated easily thirty, perhaps even forty. Many more than they could handle at once. Only the abrupt, sickening sense of the Taint and a mad dash to a nearby half-collapsed wall saved them from being spotted.

Alistair watched the darkspawn, wondering how he hadn't noticed their approach sooner. Only shrieks were known for their natural stealth; most darkspawn simply didn't bother. But these ones were intent, he realized. They were silent, save for their ragged breathing. As they approached the main body of the fortress, the pack split into several smaller ones to encircle the clearing within. An ambush, then. It chilled him to know that only luck had allowed them to avoid it.

But now was the matter of escaping unseen by the mass of the horde. A glance further down the path made him bite his lip to stifle a curse: the darkspawn had the western side of the ruins surrounded. Their twisted forms blotted the snow-covered slope like an ink-stained page. There would be no leaving that way.

"A pretty spot we're in," Zevran muttered. "I think I might've preferred dying in Redcliffe than here."

"We're not dead yet," Wynne said. She looked to Solona, who sat beside her. "Any ideas? I remember the way I'd taken out last time I was here, but we'll have to brave the open for a time, and it'll take us north, not west back to camp."

Solona chewed on her bottom lip. "There might be another way," she whispered. "Through the Tower of Ishal."

"The Tower of Ishal?" Alistair replied. "That went _up_, not down – remember?"

She shook her head. "Before the battle, I asked the guard stationed there about the tower," she said. "He mentioned Loghain ordering them to block off underground passages inside. If the darkspawn are focusing their attention here on the western side, then ostensibly those passages are unguarded right now."

Alistair mulled it over. For all they knew, those passages could take them into the Deep Roads rather than out into the Korcari Wilds. Particularly so if that was where the darkspawn had broken through during the battle. But the alternative was crossing the field below, and likely drawing a volley of arrows and half of the horde after them in the process.

"I say we take our chances with the tower," Zevran said, adjusting the bag of gear over his shoulder with a grimace. "In case you've forgotten, we're carrying quite a lot, and running is not our strong suit at the moment. Unless you wish to dump everything we've collected, thereby wasting all of this effort."

"Our lives are worth more than any sword, armor, or potion," Wynne chided with a frown.

But the assassin only laughed. "Truly? The Crows would beg to differ."

Before Wynne could respond, Solona cut in, "If we run, we drop the gear. No arguments on that point. I want everyone to come out of this alive." She turned to the elf next to her with a smile. "Including you, Zevran, Crow or not."

Whatever response the young mage had expected, it wasn't a frown and averted eyes.

"Zevran?" she asked.

"It is nothing," he answered curtly. "Come, which shall it be: the field or the tower? My vote stands."

As much as Alistair still doubted the existence of any underground passageways, the elf had a point. If they took to the field, they would have to leave what they'd found, and this venture would be for naught. "Tower it is."

Wynne sighed. "Very well. The tower."

Thus they moved out, slipping from their hiding space and then back to between the trees. With the way below blocked off, they set their sights on the bridge to take them over to the eastern side. Where the trees ended, they crept behind walls and pillars, ever more careful knowing that they were now being hunted. When they finally reached the bridge, they kneeled down to minimize their visibility to the darkspawn below. It felt like a small lifetime, crawling and scraping across that cold, stone span, but eventually they reached the other side.

But their journey was still far from over. Once they got to their feet and finished groaning and brushing off the snow, it was back to weaving between the ruins to stay out of sight. Though it appeared their assumption that most of the darkspawn had gone to the western side was correct, a few still lingered, mainly small patrols along the boundaries.

More noteworthy, though, was that not a single darkspawn guarded the tower entrance. They gaped at the open door, which almost seemed to beckon them in out of the cold.

"This is too good to be true," Alistair said. "Who leaves an escape path unwatched?"

"Perhaps they're expecting us," Wynne said.

They waited several minutes more from across the courtyard, peering at the bases of the tower buttresses and the scattered, frost-flecked bushes for any sign of movement. But nothing stirred, and though Alistair could sense darkspawn in the higher levels of the fortress, he couldn't feel any in the lower reaches.

It was empty. Completely empty.

"I don't like this," Alistair muttered.

"Whether we like it or not," Solona said, "we probably have a better chance with 'it' than taking on an entire horde at once." With a final glance around, she started towards the entrance. Zevran followed, and Alistair hesitated for a second before darting after them. When she noticed Wynne lingering, she turned and waved at the senior enchanter. "Come on!"

But Wynne only shook her head. "This doesn't bode well. Perhaps there is another way we could try?"

"Look at it this way," Zevran said, grinning wryly. "Would you like to crawl all the way across the freezing bridge again?"

With a sigh and another shake of her head, Wynne followed after them.

They made the rest of the way across the courtyard without issue, and the first floor of the tower proved equally uneventful. They sifted through each room, pushing over crates and furniture in pursuit of an underground passage, but to no avail. As they neared the stairway up to the next floor and the end of their search, Alistair grew increasingly concerned they were chasing after a dead end.

_Another lie concocted by Loghain_, he thought. _Why am I not surprised?_

But then, in that final room, they found it – a gaping hole in the floor that descended down into a crudely-hewn tunnel, or perhaps what had once been the "underground passages" Solona described. And several darkspawn and an ogre guarding it. Well, _had_ guarded, more like, after they'd finished with the lot.

"About time!" Zevran said as he wiped off the blood from a dagger on the leather armor of a genlock. "I was actually starting to feel a little tense there."

Alistair peered into the dark cavern from the edge of the chasm. Claw marks covered the surrounding stone from top to bottom, and a black, oily substance – the Taint, mostly likely – dripped from the ceiling. He made a face at that last detail.

_Ugh_, he thought. _Down the hole and into the deep._ He didn't even want to imagine where all the tunnel might lead.

Solona toed the edge of the hole. "I don't remember this last time we were here. Is this really the way out?"

"If it's at all like the darkspawn tunnels we saw in the Deep Roads," Alistair said, "then it'll likely join with more, and one of those will be it." _Now just the matter of finding it_, he silently added.

With a final peering look, they pulled up their hoods and descended into the dark.

As the light from the surface ebbed away, Wynne summoned a faint, glowing orb to guide their way. The tunnel was rough and uneven, and a mixture of the Taint and seeping groundwater kept the floor slippery and difficult to navigate. They fell several times, even agile Zevran, before finally coming to a larger cavern that split into two other passages. One turned sharply downwards, deeper into the earth, and the other took on a gentle incline several feet in.

_All right, maybe that wasn't so hard_, Alistair thought.

They took the latter path without hesitation, and, true to appearance, it continued to rise steadily until, at last, the flow of air returned and sunlight began to trickle in. Wynne extinguished her spell, and they made the final few steps out into what was the ground below the bridge.

The scene that awaited them put the Circle Tower's tragedy to shame.

Corpses lay strewn about the field, and many more hung side-by-side from coarse-cut wooden posts in varying grotesque states. Guts dangled from burst bellies, and limbs, connected by skin and tendon alone, swung in the wind. Blood and gore stained everything, and the overpowering odor of decay filled the air.

They gagged and rushed to pull the collars of their clothing over their noses. Wynne averted her eyes from the sight, and Zevran flicked his gaze suspiciously across the clearing. Solona seemed stunned by the mass of dead, speechless as she stared at the nearest body: that of a soldier, his helmet still lying but a foot from him, his head broken open and the skin and muscle half-rotted away. Alistair, though, stared at the hanging dead, whose faces – or at least what was left of them – he could see. He wondered how many of these people he had known, had even conversed with, before the massacre. Perhaps some had even been fellow Grey Wardens.

Then he saw one in particular. The golden gleam of the plate armor, the long blond hair, stringy and stained but still so much the color of sunlight…

King Cailan.

A pang of grief struck him, but before he could give voice to it or any sentiment he could offer, a movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Something was stirring in the field. A lot of somethings.

If the corpses had looked bad just lying on the ground, they looked about ten times worse standing up. And staring at them with their… _non-eyes_. But no crises of self-image or a lack of sight stopped them. The corpses began shambling towards them, and those with weapons raised them menacingly. In the distance, over the crest of a knoll, a dark, squat figure – a genlock emissary – appeared with a cackle.

The giant, undead ogre rising from underneath the snow with a low, viscous groan was a nice touch, too.

"So it _was_ too good to be true!" Zevran remarked.

"I won't say I told you so," Alistair dryly said, "but you know…"

"Focus on the present, please!" Solona cried, raising her hands and summoning a fireball.

She threw it into the middle of the crowd of walking corpses, scattering them. The smell of cooked, rotting flesh wafted over them, and they gagged again. The ogre took the opportunity and charged across the field with a guttural roar, knocking aside and stomping over dead and undead alike.

By the time they recovered their breath, they had little time to react. They dodged to the sides of its charge, and Solona, Wynne, and Zevran rolled across the snow with ease.

Alistair, however, proved too slow, encumbered as he was by his heavy plate armor. For all the protection it afforded him from swords and axes, it couldn't help him when a fist from the ogre caught him in the middle and sent him flying back into the rocky base of the hill. The collision knocked the breath out of his chest and rattled his teeth. His sword and shield slipped from his grasp to soar into the air, landing he knew not where; hopefully in one of the other undead.

Witty quips aside, though, Alistair knew he was in a bad spot, one he needed to get out of fast. His vision was swimming, and he struggled to regain his bearings. Down felt like up, up felt like down, and so on, and the only thing he could tell with any certainty was that his entire body hurt like nothing else. His legs refused to cooperate, and he found himself scrambling to avoid another slam from the ogre before he consciously realized it was coming. He managed, barely, and he watched in dazed disbelief as the ogre rushed over him.

_So _that's_ what's under an ogre loincloth_, he thought. _Eww._

Unfortunately, he underestimated the speed of the ogre, and he was less swift to dodge the next attack. Just as he pushed himself to his feet, the ogre turned and smacked him back into the ground with a meaty hand. The next moment, he found himself enclosed in said hand and rising swiftly into the air.

_Bad! Bad! Bad!_ he silently cried out.

He pounded at the huge hand with his fists and kicked his feet wildly, but he might as well have been a mosquito buzzing in its ear for all the good it did. He was trapped, well and truly, and his near future had "Grey Warden smear" written all over it.

"Alistair!" Solona shouted. "Hang on, I'm coming!"

_Don't worry_, he wanted to say. _It's not like I can go elsewhere anyway._ But the breath was being increasingly crushed from his lungs by the tightening grip of the ogre, and he could barely manage a wheeze.

Then a light – brighter than anything he'd ever seen – flared across the field with a resounding crack. The force of it crashing over him felt cold and numbing like the anti-magic techniques he'd been taught as a templar. Yet, it was also completely unlike them, for it wasn't anti-magic but magic _against_ magic.

An inhuman scream reverberated across the valley, and the ogre dropped – and with it, him.

He hit the ground with a gasp. Then he shoved weakly at the hand still around him. The next second, he found himself pulled out of it by Zevran and Solona, the latter of whom immediately kneeled down and began casting healing spells. She carefully cradled his head in her lap as she swept her soothing hands over him, whispering calming nothings all the while. Zevran lingered, a crease in his brow, as he watched the young mage at work. Then, as he groaned and his breath came more readily, the elf's expression smoothed and he turned his attention to something else nearby.

Once his chest ceased to burn for air, Alistair pushed himself up by his elbows what little he could manage and looked around. He was shocked at what he saw.

Every single corpse had fallen, as still as if they had never moved at all, and the darkspawn emissary he'd glimpsed earlier lay upon the ground in a similar state. Dead. Every last one of them dead. But by what power?

Wynne approached with a smug smile, smacking her hands together as if to rid them of dust. "I thought Mana Clash would come in use," she said. "Just goes to show there's more than one way to skin a cat, I suppose. Or a necromancer, as it were."

Solona muttered under her breath, "I want to learn that spell."

Then Zevran walked back over with a laugh. "Well, with what I found sticking out of that ogre," he said, "we shall have no trouble skinning anything from now on, I assure you." With a wide grin, he held up a longsword and a dagger, letting the sunlight glint along their sharp lengths. "Not with these sexy blades!"

Alistair stared at the weapons, their unadorned yet finely-crafted forms striking a memory in his mind. He had seen these blades before – with Duncan!

_Well_, he thought with a small smile, _perhaps this had been the better way after all._


	21. The Terrible Tree Twist

Author's Notes: Acckkkk. I don't know how to apologize enough for not updating this story in so long. It was never my intent to abandon it, but, well... That's pretty much what happened. I'm really sorry about that, and for anyone still following along, I really appreciate your patience and support. It means a lot.

I still really want to continue this story to the end. That said, considering my history with writing it as of late, I don't know what my update schedule will be like. I hope to start updating more frequently now that I feel some of my steam coming back for this story, but I just don't know for certain yet.

In other news, during this hiatus, I've gone back and reviewed the previous chapters numerous times. Most every chapter has had some changes made to a more or lesser extent, though nothing seriously plot-changing. I hope it all reads much better now!

Again, thank you very much for your support and feedback, everyone. I really appreciate it. I hope you enjoy this new chapter!

Edit: Also, if you've read David Gaider's _The Stolen Throne_, you might know what tree I'm talking about, haha.

Chapter 21: The Terrible Tree Twist

It was the next morning – the sun shining, the blanket of snow through the forest all aglitter, and everything not screaming death and gloom for once – that Alistair discovered the other reason why Solona had steered their group south.

She had gone to see Flemeth.

He hadn't known at first, not even suspected it in fact. He'd suspected _other_ things, but not that. Some news about the blood mage Jowan, perhaps, or that she'd found out where that Anders fellow had disappeared off to at long last. But not Flemeth. After they'd left the witch, picking their way through the Korcari Wilds for Lothering what seemed like a small lifetime ago, he'd thought they'd seen the last of her.

In hindsight, he supposed it was too good to be true. Though with a Blight to deal with and Ferelden falling to pieces around them, most anything good could fall into that category.

No, he didn't realize anything was amiss – until he woke to a stick being jabbed into his cheek.

With a groan, he shoved it away and blearily opened his eyes. The sun was bright and high, shining brilliantly even through the roof of his tent, and he winced. He pressed a hand over his face as he contemplated simply slipping back off to sleep, stick or no.

But there he suddenly stopped. The sun was shining through the _roof_ of his tent? That couldn't be right. That would put the time at late morning, possibly even close to noon, and they always rose around dawn. They had a camp to dismantle, pots and dishes to collect, and supplies to load; they didn't have the time to sleep in. And he knew for a fact that no one had asked for a rest day in the darkspawn-infested Wilds.

The stick poked him again, this time against his arm. "Blast you, Alistair – get up already!"

He stiffened. He _knew_ that voice!

He whipped his hand off of his face and looked to the front of his tent with a grimace. "Maker's breath, Morrigan, what do you want?" he grumbled. "And what's more, what are you doing in _here_?"

She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Trust me, 'tis not my first choice of place either," she replied. "But Solona and the others have not yet come back, and I… I…" She hesitated, frowning. "And it is most strange of them not to return by the time she said they would." Her tone made it clear they hadn't left for a little early-morning hunting.

He was throwing off his blankets and furs before she'd finished. "What?" he gasped. "Where are they? What happened?"

In his mind, he began running through a list of equipment to grab: _sword, shield, boots, pants_- No, wait, he slept in his pants, and thank the Maker for that or he would have given Morrigan an eyeful.

"Calm yourself, Alistair," she said, though he couldn't help but notice that she sounded somewhat unnerved herself. "You will not find them by charging blindly into the forest. Gather what you need, and then come out to the center of camp. I shall explain there."

She turned and, with a few shuffling steps, left. It took him only slightly longer to get his things – he hesitated over taking up Duncan's sword, then decided his own would serve well enough – and follow after.

Outside, he found that "Solona and the others" didn't mean "Solona and everyone besides Morrigan and himself," as he had initially feared. Bodahn and Sandal nervously fussed with the supplies in the cart, and the horse whickered and stamped its hooves next to them. Leliana stood near the ashy remains of last night's campfire, her bow already strung and a quiver of arrows hanging at her side. If she felt cold only in her leather armor and a single cloak, she didn't show it. Wynne, dressed in her warmer though considerably heavier robes, was by Zevran's tent, arguing with the elf.

The very runny-nosed, pink-cheeked, and six-layers-of-blankets-bedecked elf, that was. "Just give me a moment and I will… ah… ah… _ah-choo_! I will come with you," he said as he fished through his pack. "I only need – _snnfffff_ – my daggers and-"

"Zevran, listen to me," Wynne said. She laid her hands on his shoulders and gently pulled him away from his things. "You are ill. You must stay here and rest. We've already discussed this."

"Hardly a discussion, I would say," he replied, shrugging off her touch. "If my memory is correct, you simply told me. You never asked what I thought."

"Zevran-"

"And, besides which, what will the others think?" He laughed, a forced, wheezing sound. "'Oh, there is Zevran sleeping again, that old lazy-bones. These days he can't even stick a mark, one way or another! And-'"

Wynne returned her hands to his shoulders and whispered something in his ear that Alistair couldn't make out.

Zevran stiffened, but only for a moment. He turned to look at her with a skeptical eye. "My darling Wynne, I don't believe-"

Again, the mage murmured to him, and this time his brow furrowed.

With a huff, he threw his hands into the air. "Very well, have it your way," he muttered. Then, with a rather sharp motion, he shut his bag and threw it back into his tent. After a curt, "You shall hear no more from sick Zevran," he followed in after it.

Wynne straightened with a smile and smoothly strode back to the center of camp. "I knew he would see reason," she said.

Alistair eyed the tent suspiciously. He couldn't believe Zevran would leave the matter at that. At least not without slipping in a minimum of three innuendos before he did.

Then again, perhaps he was only being paranoid. Solona had told him before he was a bit of a worrywart.

_Solona…_

His chest tightened in concern again. _Maker, please let her be safe_, he thought.

As it turned out, Alistair had little time to dwell on the subject. A few seconds later, Morrigan stepped out of Oghren's tent with a grimace. "Never mind him," she ground out, more to herself than to anyone else. "Waking the dead would be easier."

Remembering Ostagar and Redcliffe, Alistair wondered for a moment if such a thing wasn't as far off as she assumed.

Then Zevran sneezed hard enough to shake the walls of his tent, and his mind returned to the present.

Alistair quickly tallied up their number once more. Aside from Solona herself, only Sten, Shale, and the mabari hound remained missing. The realization of who she had taken with her swam uneasily in his stomach.

"Well, I believe that is enough pleasantries," Morrigan said, stepping into the center of camp. "As I've already said, several of our member are missing, including our leader. They left some time ago, around an hour after dawn I believe. Now normally I would not pay this much mind but…" Again, her voice wavered slightly as her eyebrows drew together. "But they have gone to see my mother."

Bewilderment overtook the worry roiling in Alistair's gut. _Your mother?_ he thought. _What could they possibly want with your mother?_ He had assumed the witch had left the Wilds ages ago, as any sane person would in the direct path of a Blight.

His confusion was also shared by Wynne and Leliana, though not for the same reasons.

"Your mother?" Wynne said, an eyebrow raised high.

"Yes, my mother," Morrigan replied, casting a sharp look at the mage. "I do have one, you realize."

"Isn't your mother a Witch of the Wilds?" Leliana asked.

At that, Morrigan unsteadily pinched her neckplace between her forefinger and thumb. "Yes, she is," she replied, twisting the golden chain, "and I have asked Solona to kill her."

"_Kill her!_" Alistair cried. "Why in Andraste's name would you want her dead? She saved us!"

"Saved Solona and you," Morrigan corrected with narrowed eyes. "But not me, no."

What followed was a quick but illuminating explanation of exactly what Morrigan had found in that creepy grimoire Solona had given her a small age ago. That, and what the two had been discussing late into the evening for the past several weeks, which sometimes Alistair had half-jokingly assumed were criticisms about his hair.

Hint: It hadn't been about it his hair. Or at least most of it hadn't.

No, it had simply been more doom and gloom. Well, more specifically, Morrigan's doom, in a manner of speaking. Which wasn't quite so gloomy in Alistair's opinion, but he wasn't about to say that out loud.

"And so now you understand why I have woken you," Morrigan said. "They are undoubtedly locked in battle with my mother as we speak. I cannot go with you, but I can give you a ring that will show you the way."

With that, she pulled a small band of what looked like plain copper out of her satchel.

Then she strode over and handed it to – _eurgh_ – him. His desire to find Solona safe and sound made him accept the piece of jewelry without complaint.

"Think of the hut you saw, Alistair," Morrigan told him, "and you shall find Flemeth. And with her, the others as well."

Well, at least he didn't have to wear the thing.

The three of them – Wynne, Leliana, and himself – strode off into the forest with him heading the way. As the camp quickly disappeared behind them, he considered making a quip about his leading skills, but the joke turned sour from the worry blistering in his chest and died in his throat.

Instead he thought of the last time he had seen Flemeth's home, of its moss-choked roof, its ivy-smothered walls, and a strange, cloying smell he'd never managed to quite identify. He imagined it looked somewhat different now in the dead of winter, likely covered in snow and the plants all withered, but that was the image that stuck in his mind. He focused on it, and as he did the ring seemed to _pull_ him along. For once, he forced down all of the doubts he had about the raven-haired witch and simply trusted her.

Solona, Sten, Shale, the mabari hound – they had to help them. An image of Solona flashed in his mind, her dark hair and eyes, the way a genuine smile spread across her lips and crinkled her eyes. He worried if they would all be alive and well, if they'd still be fighting like Morrigan thought, and then of _what_ they'd be fighting.

He frowned as he recalled they had never found a real explanation for the whole arriving-in-the-nick-of-time bit. Really, he'd been happy enough they'd both gotten out alive. But now the mystery dawned on him anew and more than a little ominous. How had Flemeth reached them all the way at the top of the tower? And, what's more, how had she managed to carry off two fully-grown people? It seemed an impossible task.

Then he realized with a start that the ring had stopped leading him, and he returned his focus to Flemeth's hut.

In short time, they found themselves in familiar ground. Well, familiar to Alistair, at any rate. Despite the frost and snow, he still remembered the half-circle formation of rocks, the sharp bend in a tree trunk, the tall evergreen split in two and barren of needles, probably dead from a lightning strike.

And, of course, the fog.

He impatiently waved at it with a grimace, but even before he had finished he knew it was a futile endeavor.

"Calm, Alistair," Wynne gently said from behind him. "Focus, and we will find them."

With a sigh, he nodded and kept on, the soft crunching of their boots in the snow the only sound for several minutes. Then he heard it: a faint, unearthly roar off in the distance. Like something of that between the bellow of a bull and the scream of a hawk. He pocketed the ring before drawing his sword alongside his shield and picking up his pace, and he heard Wynne and Leliana follow suit.

The roaring grew steadily louder, until – almost before he quite realized it – they were bursting through a line of scraggly vegetation and out into the open.

To his horror, a high dragon stood near the hut, perching on the lip of the small hill in the marsh. It was a gigantic creature, greater and more imposing than any story could have prepared him for. The length of it covered the plateau from edge to edge, and its wings stretched high enough to easily match a three-story building. Thick, red scales – some as long as his forearm – covered it from head to toe. As Shale charged into its side, Sten cut a deep gash into a leg, and Captain tore into a foot, it recoiled with a shriek that was not entirely unhuman. Alistair shuddered at the sound.

Then the beast turned and lashed out with its tail at the three. The mabari leapt aside and the golem weathered the blow, but it caught the qunari square in the middle, sending him flying back and into the side of the wooden shack. With a growl, Shale caught the dragon's tail and yanked at it, sending the creature crashing to the ground. An arrow from Leliana flew past Alistair and struck the beast in the eye, and again it roared, this time an enraged scream like that of a woman's.

Alistair ignored it and, seeing the opening, charged up the hill and to the dragon. With a leap, he got a foothold on the tail, just a bit above where Shale was gripping it, and then he was running further up. Past the creature's flank, across its back, between the wings, and, Maker, he was absolutely, bloody _insane_ for doing this but the head was _right there_ and-

The dragon suddenly twisted out from underneath him, and only by some stroke of luck did he manage to sink his blade deep into its hide and hang on.

A moment later, a great gust of air rushed over him, beating against him from both sides, and then another came, and then another. Looking back he saw its immense wings clawing at the air. The dragon was trying to take flight.

_All right_, he thought. _Getting on the back of a high dragon was not one of my better ideas._

He tightened his hold on his sword and fervently hoped it wouldn't slip out. The beast leapt into the air, flapping its wings once, twice-

Then a boulder hit the dragon in the shoulder, knocking it back to the ground. Alistair slid across to its side from the force of the attack, and he scrambled to crawl his way back up. For a moment he was glad he had not had the time to don his heavy armor. The lack of weight combined with the strength he'd built up made the task take only a few seconds, and then he was climbing up the beast's neck with his sword in hand.

The dragon struggled to right itself with its wounded side, and it failed to notice his approach. At least not until he had his legs wrapped around its neck and was practically pounding his sword against its skull.

It screamed again and threw its head back, but he tightened his grip and held on with a grimace.

As it swung its head down in ready to try tossing him off again, he held up his sword with its point facing down towards its forehead. With a silent prayer, he watched as the beast began to throw its head back once more.

Then he thrust his blade down, and the steel length, met by the force of the dragon's thrashing, punched through the skull with a sickening crunch.

The high dragon's eyes rolled back, and it dropped to the ground with an earth-shaking thud.

The peat of the marsh absorbed its collapse only slightly, and Alistair found himself thrown off and into the dirt as well. He instinctively rolled to help absorb the impact, and once he stopped, he was relieved to find himself without any injury.

Which was more than could be said for others.

"Maker's breath, Sten, are you all right?" Wynne cried as she approached the hut.

The giant grunted, stirring slightly against the wall as the mage knelt down next to him. But he made no attempt to wave her off, and he seemed otherwise unaware of her presence. She cast a healing hand over him, but to little effect.

With wide eyes, she suddenly looked up and asked, "Where's Solona?"

The question hit Alistair like a bucket of cold water. _Solona_. He hadn't seen her at all during the fight. He quickly swept his eyes about the clearing for a prone form, but no hint of her patched bronze robes crossed his gaze. His stomach dropped as he looked back at the fallen high dragon.

It hadn't _eaten_ her, had it?

Captain abruptly barked, and he turned his attention to the mabari. The hound was running circles around a large oak tree about several paces' distance from the shack. It was a rather odd tree, he realized now that he had a chance to study his surroundings. It was one of several others, all notable for the fact that, despite the deep winter chill around them, they had their leaves. This particular one, though, was especially remarkable, for it was also shaking ever so slightly.

The mabari hound barked again, leaping upon the trunk of the tree and scratching at it.

Then, faintly, he heard from within its boughs: "I'm up here!"

Alistair immediately ran over to it and then looked up. High above, entangled thoroughly in the branches and half-caught in shadows, was Solona Amell. A rather well-chewed branch hung near her mouth, likely the reason for her prior silence. Other than that, though, she appeared in good shape. Well, save for her furrowed brow and the flush burning at her cheeks.

But, just to be sure, he called up to her, "Solona, are you hurt at all?"

"Only a wounded sense of pride," she muttered. Then, glancing back towards the hut, she shouted, "How's Sten?"

"Bad," Wynne replied. "I need to get him out of this marsh and somewhere dry where I can work on him."

"Take him into the hut. It should be safe now," Solona said.

"I can't," the elder mage said, shaking her head. "He's too heavy. I-"

"Allow me," Shale said as she strode forward.

Then, with a gentleness that surprised Alistair, the golem kneeled down and scooped up the fallen giant before walking over to the door and pulling at the latch. Finding it locked, she simply drew back a fist and punched the door in. Then she stooped down and stepped inside.

Alistair winced. "Well, that's one way to open a door," he murmured.

Wynne glanced over to him and Leliana before giving a short nod to the tree. "Try to get Solona down while I help Sten," she said, and then she turned and followed the golem inside.

The lay sister walked over to stand next to him. She peered up into the tree with a puzzled expression, and she tilted her head this way and that as she hummed in thought. A few minutes later, Alistair realized he was doing the exact same thing.

Maker's breath, how could a tree have so many branches? And how could they wrap so intricately around a person?

Finally, Solona sighed and said, "Just go get Morrigan."

Alistair and Leliana looked at each other for a long moment in a mixture of uncertainty and calculation. Then they both said, "I'll wait here. You go get her."

Leliana balked. "How could you ask me to do that? We don't get on at all!"

"Are you kidding me?" Alistair replied, shaking his head. "I think she torments me for _sport_."

"She gave the ring to you," the sister pointed out.

"And when did jewelry become a standard of-"

"I don't care who goes!" Solona huffed. "Just someone get Morrigan!"

Alistair and Leliana looked at one another again. He fiddled with the collar of his shirt, and the sister silently wrung her fingers. Then they both turned their gazes back up into the tree.

"Please stay calm, Solona," Leliana soothed. "Rest assured we will find a way to get you down."

"I already gave you a way: get Morrigan," Solona replied.

Alistair stepped up to the trunk of the tree and gave a low-hanging branch an experimental tug. It was thick and strong in his hand, and the rough bark offered him a firm grip. "Don't worry, I used to climb trees all the time as a kid in Redcliffe. Particularly when I wanted to get away from Isolde," he said with a chuckle. After another tug, he pulled himself up and grabbed hold of another branch. "This will be a piece of cake!"

Solona shook her head at him with wide eyes. "No, Alistair, don't! Stay on the ground!"

He ignored her and swung himself over to another branch. She wasn't far off now; perhaps only a few more branches and he'd already be next to her. Then it would simply be a matter of hacking away the boughs tangled around her. "Just a moment, and I'll be right there," he said, an easy smile on his face.

A minute later he was also stuck in the tree.

Alistair tugged at a branch wrapped around his bicep. He tried to ignore the fact he had at least a dozen more wrapped elsewhere along his body. "Hm. You know, this was not how I envisioned this," he said.

Solona sighed. "I tried to tell you. It's a magic tree. Flemeth did… _something_, and I got stuck up here." She glanced over at him. "And I guess I was right in my assumption that it'll trap others by reflex."

"Flemeth?" he said, his brow furrowing. "You don't mean…" He nodded towards the clearing, or at least where it would be if he could see it through the leafy boughs of the tree.

"The dragon?" she said. Her shoulders drooped. "Yes. That's Flemeth. Or was, at least. Sort of."

"_Sort of"_… He was tempted to ask what she meant by that, but he decided against it. Perhaps ignorance really was bliss in this case.

He tried to put it out of his mind, as well as the fact that he had just killed a _high dragon_ of all things. Or, rather, a legendary Witch of the Wilds in the form of a high dragon. Which really didn't help make it any better, if he thought about it.

_No. No thinking_, he reminded himself.

"So, what now?" he asked a little shakily.

"Get Morrigan," she said.

"What's the second plan?" Leliana called up from below.

"Get Morrigan," she said again, more tiredly this time. "How many times do I need to repeat myself? She's lived here for years. She probably knows how to dispel this."

"Can't you cast a spell of your own?" Alistair asked.

"Certainly," she replied, "if you like being burnt to a crisp along with the tree."

Still, the sister hesitated, plucking uncertainly at the string of her bow.

Solona sighed. "If you go get Morrigan, I'll let you decorate my hair however you like."

That brightened Leliana's expression considerably. "Really?" she asked. At the mage's nod, she smiled and waved to the mabari. "Come on, Captain Cuddles – back to camp!"

Alistair grimaced. Well, he supposed he couldn't really help it if some people still used the old name…

He watched as Leliana and the hound strode out from beneath the tree, and then he listened as their crunching footsteps faded away into the distance. Rather belatedly, he worried if other foes still waited in the forest. Even if the sister and dog could handle themselves, he doubted Solona and he could, stuck as they were.

As if reading his mind, Solona said, "I think Flemeth was using magic to hide this place from the darkspawn. We should be safe for a while yet."

He nodded, and then another thought occurred to him. "You should have added a qualifier to your promise. Now Leliana will want to do your hair every day."

Solona blinked. "Oh," she said, and then she frowned. "_Oh, no_."

"I think she's been keeping a collection of ribbons. Lots of bright, pastel colors." At her grumble, he added, "At least we'll have no trouble picking you out of a crowd, eh?"

Before she could reply, a gust of wind whipped through the clearing, whistling against the eaves of the hut and shaking the boughs of the trees. Above them, something rattled, dull and hollow, and again that strange, cloying odor he remembered wafted by, except stronger this time.

He sniffed the air, trying to identify what it was at last.

From next to him, Solona said, "You don't want to look up."

He looked up.

And, true to word, instantly regretted it. Before, blinded by the sun and snow, he'd only been able to distinguish the lower reaches of the tree. Now that he was enclosed in its shade and his eyes had adjusted, he could see the skeletons and decomposing corpses hanging further above them. Of what clothing remained on their gaunt forms, many had just a simple soldier's gear – unwary deserters, perhaps – but he couldn't help noticing that more than a few wore plate armor bearing the familiar symbol of a flaming sword.

Well, that explained the smell.

He looked back down towards the ground – the wonderful, perfectly ordinary, dullish-brown ground speckled with a bit of snow – and tried not to think on the matter any further.

He wondered how soon Leliana would return.

Alistair and Solona lapsed into an awkward, slightly tense silence as they waited, broken only by the howling of the wind and the jostling of the branches – hard, hollow _branches_, he thought pointedly – above them. That, and the occasional rustle of Solona's robes as she shifted in the tree's grip.

After the fifth time, he sighed and asked, "All right. What is it?"

She twisted restlessly once more before giving up with a grimace. "My side is itching horribly, and I can't reach it."

He looked further back and toward her abdomen, and he barely held back a gasp as he suddenly realized that, at this angle, he had an unimpeded view down the front of her top. From her collarbone all the way to where the sash tied the material at the waist, she was all soft, creamy flesh. The _really_ tantalizing bits remained hidden behind a stretch of tight, black fabric – likely her breast-band, he thought – but _still_… He snapped his eyes back to hers with a fierce blush and hoped she hadn't noticed.

By the rising arch of an eyebrow and the grin twitching at her lips, she definitely had.

He cleared his throat. "So, um, which side is it?" he asked.

The grin slipped away. "My… scarred side. Sometimes it acts up."

Which was the side closest to him. He wiggled his arm and, after a few grunts and grimaces, managed to tear it free of the branch wrapped around it. He was rather surprised when another didn't immediately reach down to grab it again. Perhaps whatever magic had been sustaining the tree's movement was wearing off.

He stretched his hand back and towards her abdomen, forcing himself to focus on her side and not the tempting gap in her robes. But she suddenly shrunk away, and he stopped.

He returned his eyes to hers and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile and not the bungling mess he felt like. "I'm just trying to help scratch it," he said.

She hesitated, biting her lower lip, but then after a moment she nodded and relaxed.

The low moan she gave as his fingers ran across her side surprised him, making him nearly give one of his own. _Relief_, he reminded himself. _It was a moan of relief._ Which didn't exactly help him, as several more possibilities of how he could help "relieve" her sprung to mind. He squirmed a little, his legs shifting back and forth in the tree's tight grip, as he desperately tried to ignore the heat gathering in a particular part of his body.

Oh, yes, his priorities were in _perfect_ order. Here he was, dangling high up in the grip of a Death Tree, and all he could think about was Solona moaning next to him. Or above him. Or below him. Or…

He squirmed again.

He supposed there were stranger places to be turned on. Not many, but some.

"Alistair," Solona suddenly said, and he looked back into her dark eyes in something of a daze. He realized he had stopped scratching at some point, and his hand now simply rested on her side. "I… I should really tell you about-"

A bush cracked below, and he snatched his hand away. _So much for being safe here!_ he thought, grimacing as he frantically looked for his sword. But the blasted tree had torn it from him earlier, and it now hung several feet out of reach. He stifled a curse.

Maybe he could just headbutt any darkspawn that climbed the tree? He probably had a thick enough skull for it…

But only Zevran stepped out of the line of brush.

Which wasn't all that much of an improvement, Alistair glumly thought.

The elf smacked at the clinging bushes with a grumble, wincing when several twigs cracked loudly underfoot. "I am usually much more nimble than this," he muttered to himself. He patted his sides, making sure the bushes hadn't tugged away his daggers as well.

"Zevran!" Solona shouted. "We're up here!"

The elf spotted them in seconds. "Ah-ha!" he said, striding up to the tree trunk with a smirk. "I see where our lover-birds have gone. This brings to mind a certain children's rhyme, no? Something about sitting in trees and-"

Alistair groaned.

Zevran tsked. "Oh, very well," he said, grasping hold of a branch. "No teasing for now. I will have you down shortly."

Both Solona and Alistair hurriedly shook their heads. "Wait, Zevran! No!" they cried.

The elf scowled at them. "I am sick, not a frail waif on her death bed," he said, pulling himself up into the boughs. "Really, you Fereldans worry too much."

Two minutes later Zevran was also stuck in the tree.

The elf pulled his arm against the branch twining around it yet again before giving up with a frown. "It is the cold," he said. "And that is all I shall say on the matter."

Then, as if the mention had summoned it, he let out a fierce sneeze that shook the entirety of the tree.

Alistair grimaced. "If you get us sick as well-"

Another bush cracked below, and then another and another, each one closer than the last. Again, Alistair strained an arm towards his sword in vain, and Zevran twisted and struggled in the tree's branches to reach the blades still at his sides. Solona finally managed to pull a hand free and began focusing a spell into her palm.

Only to let it fizzle out at the bark of a dog. Shortly after, the mabari hound and two familiar figures emerged from the forest. Alistair, Solona, and Zevran sagged against the boughs with a collective sigh.

"Zevran?" Leliana said as she approached. "I thought we had left you back at camp."

The elf in question huffed. "Yes. _Well_."

"'Twould explain the strange silence there," Morrigan said with a small, amused smile. Then, looking further up, her gaze fell upon Solona, and she frowned. "But no matter. You have done what I asked, and I shall free you."

Alistair nearly melted in relief. Finally, they would be out of the Death Tree and back on the ground, where things were normal and upright and not surrounded by _dead templars_-

He quickly halted that line of thought.

"Yes," he said, again a little unsteadily. "Yes, down would be goo-"

Morrigan stamped the end of her staff against an exposed root of the tree with a quick murmur of half-heard syllables, and then suddenly Alistair was falling.

He landed face-first on the peat below, and the air rushed out of his chest with an "oof." Luckily, he hadn't had far to fall, and he suffered no injury from it as far as he could tell. But by the way the mud squelched beneath him, he was quite sure his clothes would need a thorough wash, not to mention his face.

He raised his head, about to complain, when Solona dropped down onto him.

The impact forced the air from his lungs again and pushed him a couple of inches deeper into the mire. After he regained his breath, he checked himself over again, at least to what extent he could. Aside from a little soreness, he seemed to have escaped without harm yet again.

But then Solona _moved_ against him, and any concern of pain flew out of his mind. She was soft yet firm, and even with her nose digging between his shoulder blades, the warm roundness of her breasts pressing against his back was the most pleasing sensation he could remember right then. Then she exhaled, and the heat of her breath rolling across the nape of his neck made him shiver.

No, he thought; he certainly didn't mind having Solona on top of him. And then, unbidden, he thought of a much _better_ way she could be on top of him, and he blushed.

Suddenly, he was very glad to be facing downward.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" Solona cried as she pushed herself off.

Only to be shoved back down when Zevran landed on top of her. Which then shoved _him_ another few inches into the muck. _Lovely_.

The elf groaned. "Well, I suppose we're at least all out-"

Then the rotting corpses toppled out from the tree as well, crashing down onto them. Well, onto Zevran to be precise. And only a few, as most just tumbled into the dirt around them, but even from under Solona he could feel the elf's shudder. For once, Alistair was thankful to have simply gotten pummeled into the ground.

Zevran hissed a string of foreign curses before muttering, "Bath. Now."

"I could not agree more," Solona said, her reply a little muffled from her face being pushed into Alistair's back. "But first you need to get off."

Morrigan stifled a snicker behind a hand as Leliana stepped over to help the elf up. Though Solona rolled off shortly after, Alistair lingered on the ground, still feeling more than a little affected by Solona's closeness. As he was now, he was pretty sure getting up would be a bad idea.

"Err. You go ahead. I'm going to… lie here for a bit," Alistair said.

Solona looked down at him with a worried expression. "Are you hurt, Alistair? Do you need healing?"

Maker, the thought of her hands on him, running across his skin…

"No, no," he said, smiling weakly. "I just need to relax for a moment. You know?"

Zevran glanced at their corpse-strewn surroundings and then raised a brow at him. "Truly? Here of all places? You have strange tastes, my friend."

Alistair flushed. "It isn't…" At the elf's snicker, he groaned and shoved his face into the dirt. "Just, shut up."


	22. Author's Note

Author's Note

Hello, everyone,

For quite some time now, I've struggled with this story. I tried a lot of things to bring it back – revisions, writing prompts and exercises, replaying DA:O itself – but again and again it flagged. After months of this, I've finally come to the conclusion I can't continue it any longer.

I'm very sorry about this. For those who have been following along and leaving feedback, I really appreciate your time and interest. It's been wonderful reading your thoughts and hearing how much this story made you laugh and smile. I am so glad you read and enjoyed it so much while it lasted.

As I've mentioned in prior notes, I did have more already written for future chapters, but these were a ways off in the story timeline. What I may do now instead is polish them up and post them as one-shots separate from this story. I'm not sure when exactly I'll do that – I have graduate school coming up shortly, and I imagine that will keep me very busy – but at some point I would like to.

For now, I plan to leave this story up for anyone to read. Someday I may like to try my hand again at some of the core ideas I had behind this series, but beyond that it is now discontinued.

Again, thank you so much for your patience and support. I really appreciate it.

I wish you all the best!

-MinionRipley


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